


Tabula Rasa

by AintNoMeIfThereAintNoYou



Series: Tabula Rasa 'verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, But He Gets Better, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forced Prostitution, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Probably too many references to other shows and books, Weechesters, but he might not stay that way, the author is really sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 40
Words: 103,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AintNoMeIfThereAintNoYou/pseuds/AintNoMeIfThereAintNoYou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series AU. </p><p>Dean thought his luck had been stretched as far as it was going to go when he was taken in by the Pypers, a family that only wanted him to work around the house and nothing shadier. But when the Pypers decide to kick him out, the Winchesters step in and adopt him. </p><p>As Dean adjusts to a life that includes a real bed, regular food, and a lovable pain-in-the-ass brother called Sam, he begins to believe he may finally have a chance at normal. But the shadows of the past are long, what will Dean do when his past comes knocking?</p><p>Warning: this fic is quite dark in places, please see the tags and the notes inside for possible triggers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if I need to increase the rating, but I figured seen as I'm a teen and I wrote it, most teens would be okay reading it. There is nothing particularly graphic here, though there are mentions of adult themes. If anyone thinks the rating is too low, do tell me and I'll shift it up.
> 
> Dean is 16 and Sam is 12. It's set in England (the link to canon is explained in the story), mainly because I first started with it set in the US but then found it practically impossible to write realistic school scenes. I had no clue what sort of marks were achievable, the teaching styles,how schools were set out, and it all started looking more like High School Musical than a realistic school setting so I decided to take Mark Twain's advice and write what I know.
> 
> Also, I've had to screw around with the timeline so it's set in the present day but the boys are 16 and 12.
> 
> It may annoy some readers at first to see two OCs with the surname Winchester, but their link back to canon will also be explained. I hope you like the OCs, I've tried to make them work for their screen time.
> 
> There is one other canon alteration, though minor this time. A silver knife is enough to kill a djinn, no lamb's blood is needed. It was pretty unrealistic to imagine a sixteen year old and a twelve year old finding lamb's blood merely hours after finding out the supernatural exists.
> 
> I have a fair bit of this written and plan to update every week or so.  
> EDIT: I will update every Wednesday. If there's a day I can't do, I'll try and get the chapter out earlier rather than later.
> 
> Possible triggers include: child abuse (both sexual and emotional), PTSD, paedophilia, alcoholism, starvation, discussions of death, discussions of stillbirths, discussions of hirsutism, broken limbs, descriptions of blood and gore, survivor guilt, divorce, and fire. If anyone can think of any more triggers, please tell me and I'll add them.

Michael Winchester looked once again at his watch and decided that forty minutes was an acceptable amount of time to wait before going to get yet another drink.

With a forced smile that hid the stiffening of his unfortunately ageing limbs, he excused himself to refill his glass of orange juice. It turned out Lucas Pyper was even more boring at home than he was at work. Unfortunately, his boss's wife was no better, and Michael spotted Jane surreptitiously pinching herself a couple of times to stay awake.

As he unscrewed the cap and started to pour out the juice into the crystal glassware, Michael couldn't resist a small smile at the memory of his wife discreetly checking the living room clock as often as she could and trying to hide a yawn beneath a wide, open-mouthed, grin. They were both running a little low on sleep as Sam had had a nightmare about clowns after going out for a birthday meal at McDonalds the day before. Jane had shushed him and let him sleep next to her for the night, promising the little lad that they'd never go to the blasted fast food chain again.

There came a loud thud and a quiet 'fuck' from behind the utility room door.

That was odd. All the adults were in the living room and Sam was outside, playing with the Pyper children.

But there was definitely someone there. There was a squeak from the depression of metal springs and then silence. Michael set down the carton and went to the door.

He didn't know what he'd expected, but he certainly hadn't expected this.

Inside, on an old sofa, was a thin kid who couldn't be any older than sixteen. He had been looking down, his short, dirty blond hair barely hiding the purple lump protruding from his forehead, trying to stem the flow of blood dripping from where the metal spring sticking out of one of the cushions had torn his leg open. But the moment Michael walked in the room, his head jerked up to reveal a stoic face but bright, terrified, green eyes.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" asked Michael, at a loss for words.

The boy shook his head and pulled his knees up to his chest, sitting hunched up on the undamaged side of the couch. Now he was looking up, Michael could see five fading marks on the kid's right cheek. He was clearly not one of the Pyper kids, Lucas only ever mentioned two, so he must have sneaked in somehow.

"Who are you?" The question came out harsher than he intended it to.

The boy's back instinctively straightened, despite the slight wince, and he replied, "Dean, sir." The voice sounded gruff from disuse.

Michael moved in and sat on the arm of the couch, trying to ignore the way those wary eyes followed his every move.

"Okay, what are you doing here?" he tried again.

No answer. Just a defiant jaw and scared eyes. Michael locked his eyes onto the kid's and watched with more than just a little guilt as the jaw slackened and the kid swallowed, terror taking over and making him forfeit their little staring contest.

"What's your full name? Dean what?"

The kid, Dean, shrugged. "Just Dean, sir."

"C'mon, you've got to have a last name!" The kid shrugged again. "And you don't have to call me sir, I'm Michael."

He extended his hand with a large smile, but all Dean did was back away and his face twitched as he tried to suppress a flinch. Michael retracted his hand, the smile having turned into a grimace. He palmed the back of his neck, dreading to ask the question once again. "What are you doing here, Dean?"

The kid looked around the room, scanning the whitewashed walls, piles of old books and sheets of paper and the wrecked schoolbag in the corner. His eyes dropped and resignation washed over his face. "I live here."

Right. Okay. What?

"What do you mean? I thought Muriel and Lucas only had two kids?"

Dean let out a hitched breath as his head bobbed. Michael guessed it was supposed to be a chuckle of some sort. "Yeah."

Michael was about to continue enquiring but he could hear Lucas's voice coming from the kitchen. "Are you trying to make orange juice from scratch or something? Michael?"

"In here," called Michael.

Lucas came and stood in the doorway, a sturdy man with a confident gait, the only signs revealing his age being his slight paunch and early balding. Michael hoped his colleague would be able to explain what Dean meant by 'I live here' but as he watched the look passing between man and boy, he felt doubt creep into his mind.

Dean, as before, broke first and mumbled an apology down at the floor, before looking up again. "I-I swear, I didn't get him to come in here. He came in by himself!"

Lucas turned away from the kid and looked towards him, scaring Michael with how easily he could manipulate a glare into a smile.

"Michael, why don't we leave little Deano here and return to the living room?" Then, colder, he said to Dean, "I'll talk to you later."

Michael's boss then walked out of the room, leaving Michael with no option but to follow.

_Why is he here?_

_How did he get those bruises?_

_Why does he constantly look so damn terrified?_

Once they were back in the absurdly clean living room, sat on some rather lovely velvet cushions, Lucas leaned back and smiled.

"Sorry about him back there, he's a bit," he whistled two notes, the second being lower in pitch than the first, "mentally disturbed, as they say. Autism or something like that, always getting into fights."

Michael stayed quiet, letting Lucas feel the need to fill the silence.

"You saw the lump," continued Lucas, "on his head? From a really nasty row with Max yesterday. Kid hurts himself more than anything else really, our Max would never hurt someone like, you know,  _him_."

"Of course." Michael looked back down at his drink. He was overthinking things, seeing what wasn't there. He swirled the glass and watched one ice cube chase another. "Is he your kid?"

Lucas started laughing, though at what, Michael had no idea. "Christ, no! He's adopted, we took him in two years ago. The boy had a brute of a father, we thought to give him a second chance."

See. His boss was a good guy really, it was just him being paranoid. But it was harder to lie to himself than it was to others.

_That room had looked way too much like a bedroom. But who the heck keeps a kid in the utility room?_

"Why doesn't he join the other kids outside?" He hadn't meant to ask that, but the part of him that kept wanting to check the kitchen door every few seconds had apparently taken over.

"He doesn't like company, kind of likes to spend his time alone." His boss paused and gave Michael an oddly calculating look, before continuing. "Of course, I'll suggest it to him, he could do with getting out and about a little." Mr Pyper stood up and went back into the kitchen.

Michael guessed he was expected to stay seated but he couldn't help but follow a few steps behind as Lucas went through the kitchen and stormed into the utility closet.

He stopped when he heard the terrified yelp and the thud of knees hitting the floor. Taking a few steps forward, he saw Dean trembling, head stooped, as he knelt next to the sofa and fumbled for the hem of his shirt, his fingers getting caught in a rip near the bottom.

"You made him come in here, didn't you?" Lucas hissed, "Get up and get outside."

The boy stood quickly and both of them turned to face Michael.

"Ah, I hadn't realised you'd followed me," said Michael, all flowers and rainbows once again, before turning to Dean, "go on, go join the others outside."

Michael waited until Dean was out of the kitchen door before turning to Lucas. "What's going on? It's pretty chilly outside and you just sent the kid out without a jacket."

"It's not like he'd have listened to me if I'd suggested it." Lucas let out an exasperated sigh, "You have no idea how difficult he is to handle."

Through the kitchen window he could see the kid clutching at his upper torso in a futile attempt to ward off the cold. Turning back, he stared pointedly at Michael.

"Really, he doesn't listen to anything we say, he fights constantly with the kids, and even Muriel." Lucas leaned against the kitchen countertop, the very picture of exhaustion. "Sometimes I wonder why we even took him in. We should have known that the apple never falls far from the tree."

Michael was a banker, a man of numbers. It was really starting to bother him that none of this was adding up. His boss, while a manipulative offspring of a female dog, had always seemed so fond of his children, especially his daughter, Kate. And to be fair, Dean hadn't hit him as the most social of teenagers, so maybe he really was the problem child of the family.

That still didn't explain why, in the house of a banker and a councillor, there was a child that looked like he hadn't had a decent meal in a few weeks, that had a ripped shirt and trousers that were too big for him, that felt the need to kneel when his father came in the room.

"All kids have their ups and downs, Lucas," said Michael, "And Dean doesn't seem like all that bad a kid."

"The thing's violent, lazy, and stupid to boot," Lucas let out another dramatic sigh and hung his head. "I've really been considering kicking him out, you know, to protect my family."

Michael spluttered a mouthful of orange juice onto his boss.

_And there goes my next promotion. Oh look, it's waving goodbye._

"But- but that's a kid! You can't just abandon him like that, no matter how bad he is!"

Lucas raised his eyes and his eyebrows together and fixed him with his steely glare. "Are you proposing to tell me what I can and cannot do, Winchester?"

_No._

_Say no._

_Goddammit, your job's at stake here, say no and just leave!_

"No-"

_Good._

"Yes."

_Damn._

Lucas put the glass down and spoke, his voice frighteningly cold, "He broke one of the last things that Muriel still has from her mother. He picked it up and he smashed it, right there, on those tiles. He felt no remorse for that. No, he stood there and laughed as my wife cried. So are you really going to tell me I can't kick him out if it damn well pleases me?"

"Look, I- you-" he stammered. "I'm not trying to argue with you, but please don't do that. Look, we'll look after him, just don't throw him out like that."

"You think you can handle him?" Lucas sneered.

"I don't know, but we can try."

_Crap, you haven't even spoken to Jane about this. What are you doing?_

Just as Michael was about to retract his offer, Lucas spoke. "You know what? Take him. I just want him out and if you want to take him, be my guest."

And that was it. There was no way Michael could back out without spending the rest of his life wondering whether his boss did good on his plans to kick out the kid with the sad, green eyes. Hence, selfish as ever, Michael nodded.

Besides, Dean couldn't really be all that bad, could he?

_Oh God, I hope not._


	2. Chapter 2

“Uhm, excuse me, but could I borrow Jane for a minute?” Michael’s head popped around the living room door. He’d gone in earlier to get some orange juice and seemed to have decided to settle there for good.

Jane was eternally grateful for her husband’s interruption as Muriel got up to get yet more photographs from their recent holiday to Venice.

Lucas walked into the living room and joined his wife while Jane went into the kitchen, shut the door, and brushed her lips against Michael’s. “I thought I’d die of boredom in there,” she whispered as she wrapped her arms around his neck, “You’d have to put it on my gravestone, ‘Here lies Jane Winchester, died because her ears bled from hearing too much bullshit’.”

She leaned in for another kiss, but Michael leaned back a little and closed his eyes. She stopped. “What’s wrong? Did you kill Lucas to shut him up? Because I swear I’ll help you hide the body.” She grinned conspiratorially.

There was no smile in response, just a quiet sigh.

“I may or may not have just adopted a kid,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“I didn’t know what to do! I panicked, it just came up and there was nothi-“

Her voice rose by a few orders of magnitude as she interjected. “Oh yeah! Because these things pop up all the time! One minute you’re discussing the recession, next minute, boom! You’re taking in children!”

“I- just- just hear me out? Please?” Michael looked Jane in the eye, that soft, caring gaze that always broke down her walls.

“I don’t want to,” she said softly, the anger gone, before sighing. “Okay.”

 “I need you to look at this.” He went over to a side door that led to the utility closet.

Jane followed him and peered inside.

She didn’t know what she had expected, probably a washing machine, maybe some unopened boxes of cereal and juice cartons like they had at home, but she certainly hadn’t expected this. Sure, there was a washing machine, but it was also clearly a bedroom.

 “Michael,” she asked, with growing horror, “who lives here?”

Michael turned and sat down on the unbroken couch cushion (right on top of a dried spattering of blood. Typical.).

“Did you know the Pypers have a son called Dean?” He asked, his voice deliberately light.

“They just have two kids, Max and Kate. Does this room belong to one of them?” she asked absentmindedly as she rifled through some notes in a tattered purple ring binder. A curly scrawl filled most of the pages bar about a week’s worth of notes near the middle.

Jane recognised the clumsy, child-like, formation of each letter individually. She had been fourteen when she’d sprained her wrist badly during a hockey match. Assuming it was no more than a bruise, she had continued to try to write with it until a teacher had called her up on her slow pace.

It seemed like this kid hadn’t let their wrist heal either.

“That’s what I’m saying, there’s another kid. Muriel and Lucas adopted him a couple of years ago, but I guess they never thought to mention him. He’s called Dean and this is where he lives,” he scoffed.

Jane closed the file and sat down on the arm of the sofa next to her husband. “And I’m guessing he’s the one you just adopted?”

Michael closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands. “Look, Jane, I don’t have a clue if I’m doing the right thing here. The right thing for him or the right thing for us. Lucas says he’s violent and mentally unstable, he’s been thinking about kicking him out and was about to do it today. We’re perfectly happy as we are and I should probably have just left it.” He sighed and lifted his head. “But I talked to him, Jane, I sat with him and talked to him. And, I don’t know, I just felt like he wasn’t a bad kid. Just a kid who’d seen a lot of bad things. He looked so scared when he saw me, like he just wanted to hide behind the couch or something. Kids shouldn’t look like that, Jane, kids should never look like that.”

Jane took his hand in hers and nodded. Michael’s sudden decision was starting to make sense, as Jane knew it eventually would. He never did anything rash unless there was very good reason for it.

“I mean, if he’s kicked out, what’s he going to do? He’s too old for foster care so it’ll either be squatting or a juvenile detention centre for him. We can’t leave a kid to that, can we? Not when there was a chance we could have helped. So I thought it might be okay to take him in, like a trial run of sorts, and if things don’t work out, we’ll…” he hesitated and looked away, “we’ll make alternate provisions.”

“And how do you think that’ll make Dean feel?” Jane asked, fire rising up within her as she let go of Michael’s hand. “He’s not a pair of jeans you can try before you buy. You can’t take a kid into your home and then abandon them again when you decide they’re too much to handle. You know that.”

Michael inhaled, closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and slowly exhaled. “I know.”

“If we take him in, we take him in for good, you get that, right?”

Michael, eyes still closed, nodded.

“We handle any problems that occur as a family and we raise him as our own.” Jane took his hand into her own and his eyes opened at the contact. “I know you. You’re generally not wrong about people. I’m sure Dean’s a great kid really and we’ll make sure he gets a decent chance at life.”

Michael ran his thumb across her knuckles. “I love you, you know that?”

“You’d better.”

 

* * *

 

Sam really regretted not bringing a book to read.

_“There’s two kids your age, you can play with them.”_

_Yeah, well, they’re too busy in their sibling rivalry death match to talk to me, so what now, Mum?_

As he watched the shuttlecock fly over the net and Max’s subsequent smash shot and victory dance, he thought about the question he was itching to ask.

_Wrong crowd._

Kate started to set up for a serve when the quiet shutting of the back door made her pause. There was some kid Sam had never seen before in a light grey shirt that reminded him of his old pyjamas, the ones he’d refused to let Mum throw away until there were nearly more holes than material. Kate and Max both looked at the boy with barely hidden contempt before continuing their match as before.

Sam continued to rock himself on the garden swing, hoping the new kid in the strange clothes would join him, but he just stood awkwardly in the corner of the patio and watched the match, shivering slightly every so often.

It was only after a whole geological period had passed and his bottom had grown roots that Sam went over to this new boy and started talking. Awkwardness could only win against boredom for so long.

“Hi, I’m Sam” he put out his hand confidently, like he’d seen his dad do whenever he met someone new.

A calloused hand gripped his lightly. “Dean.”

The kid, Dean, suddenly looked down at his hand in horror. “Oh God, I’m sorry.” Hi fingers flew opened and he jerked his arm back. “I can go get you some hand sanitiser, there’s some inside-”

“What? No… why? Have you touched something weird?” asked Sam, rubbing his palm on his jeans.

“No, just,” Dean shrugged and looked down at his fingertips, “you know.”

Sam didn’t really know but he didn’t want to admit that so he asked his question. “What’s your favourite kind of sandwich?”

Dean looked a little taken aback but that was okay, Sam was used to that response. “Uhm, I dunno,” he paused and thought, his arms wrapping themselves around his stomach a little tighter, a bit like Sam did when breakfast had been small and the clock was taking too long to reach lunchtime. “I imagine a bacon, egg, sausage, cheese and ketchup sandwich would taste pretty awesome,” he grinned and swallowed down some spit.

Sam’s face fell and he scuffed his shoes against the patio.

“What’s up? What’s your favourite?” asked Dean.

“Nothing, just, my mum thinks it’s weird that my favourite’s a peanut butter and banana sandwich so I decided I’d find at least one other person who said it was their favourite too. I just- I just reckon, if the world has seven billion people in it, there’s  _got_ to be  _someone_  else who really likes it,” he finished earnestly.

“I dunno, it sounds a little too wild, and not to mention healthy, for my tastes.” Dean said, trying to stop himself from grinning.

_Oh great, someone else who thinks you’re a freak._

But the anger came and went, because Sam found he kind of liked it when Dean grinned. He just looked, well, younger. Him smiling was way better than the terrified look he’d had when shaking Sam’s hand, so Sam reckoned he’d be okay with Dean laughing at him, just this once.

There came a yell from the doorway that robbed the older kid of his grin in an instant.

“Boy.”

 

* * *

 

 

Michael could almost see the maternal instincts swoop in and take over Jane as the kid,  _their_  kid, shuffled inside and leaned against the kitchen worktop, the specks of maroon on his shirt standing out against the cream worktop. Her eyes softened and her balled fists went slack.

Yep. There was no way his wife would let them leave this house without taking Dean with them.

“Dean, you’re going to be going home with Michael and Jane. See if you can behave a little better with them than you ever did with us.”

Michael didn’t think one could ever abandon a kid with quite so little emotion but apparently he’d been wrong.

Full-blown panic exploded in the kid’s eyes. “Please, p-please sir, don’t sell me off! I’ll do better, I’ll stay out of the way and just do my chores and not break anything anymore. Please! I’m sorry!” His voice started to crack as he watched Lucas remain impassive. “Is- is it because of those notes I left saying I wanted to go to college? Because I don’t mean them! I don’t need to go to college, I’m too dumb for it anyway, they wouldn’t take an idiot like me. I know I’m stupid and lazy, but- but I can work harder, I can! Please sir, please give me another chance, please?” The question came out as a choked whisper as the desperate panic left his features, leaving merely the hollow shell of skin and bone behind.

“You know what you did.” With that, Lucas turned round and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Michael and Jane with their new ward.

“Hey Dean, I’m Jane and I think you’ve met Michael before,” said Jane, her voice strong despite her glistening eyes. “And if you want to go into further education, and you’re willing to work hard for it, I’d like to see anyone try to stop you.”

Dean looked up at her through his lashes, confusion making a cameo appearance in his eyes, only to be replaced by the main star of the show, resignation. “I’m too thick for college or anything like that…” his sentence trailed off as he looked longingly at the shut door.

“I refuse to believe that,” said Jane. “Now why don’t you go get your things and we’ll set off home?”


	3. Chapter 3

Dean's hands were shaking as he went into the utility room he'd come to think of as his bedroom and packed a carrier bag with the few things he could really call his. His eyes lingered longingly on the Walkman and the cassettes that accompanied it.

_It's one of the last warm days of autumn and the closet door is slightly ajar, allowing strains of conversation to drift in. Sir and ma'am are praising Max for the comments he's gotten on his latest assignment: a short horror story. Dean sits and listens, wondering what had made it so easy to write that story. He often did an alright job on Max's homeworks but this one had really taken the biscuit. Maybe it just boiled down to the fact that good and bad was so much easier to define while writing about the paranormal._

_He doesn't know when he drifted off, but he's startled awake by the shutting of the door. Max is stood in his room, looking strangely awkward and guilty._

_It's odd to think this is the same Max who rats him out and beats him up regularly. But Dean gets it. He did crazy things to try and please his dad too. Max has been getting nicer though, he's even given him the crusts off his sandwich at school a couple of times and he doesn't look as happy when he hits him anymore._

_Max reaches into his pockets, pulls out a Sony Walkman from one, some cassettes from the other, and puts them down behind a pile of schoolbooks._

_Dean doesn't know what to think. It's got to be some sort of joke._

_Yeah, that's what it is. A mildly cruel joke where he's going to wait until Dean dares to take a step towards the device, at which point he'll snatch them up again, mock him for his idiocy, and run off to tell his sister about his excellent prank._

_Except it isn't._

_"Don't tell Mum," he opens the door and turns round to meet Dean's gaze, "but thanks."_

_Before Dean can say anything, Max leaves._

No. There was no way he was risking it being broken at the hands of the crazy perverts that the Winchesters clearly were. No one ever took in a stray sixteen year old with good intentions.

He could just imagine it. They would take the blue and silver Walkman and smash it, and him, to pieces the moment he stepped out of line. Like his father had done with the picture.

Not that he was any better. Two days ago, he'd accidentally knocked over one of the figurines ma'am's mother had given her while cleaning. He'd instantly regretted it and he'd been replaying the scene in his head over the last couple of nights, wishing he'd been a little more careful with his stupidly fast-growing limbs. Every night, he could see the horror bloom on her face as she watched the glass shatter, knowing she'd never get that remnant of her mother back.

He'd been so, so, sorry and eventually, when the blows subsided, they seemed to have come to some sort of stalemate. He was to be on his best behaviour and not fuck anything up and Mr Pyper wouldn't do good on his promise to kick him out.

But he'd gone and screwed that up too by tripping over his own feet and drawing attention to himself while they had guests over. No wonder the Pypers had decided to sell him off. A broken machine was no more than a waste of space.

He picked up the carrier bag and walked through the kitchen and into the hallway. Mr and Mrs Winchester seemed to have been in the middle of a heated discussion with sir and ma'am, which stopped abruptly when they caught sight of him.

"What's in that bag, boy? Stealing things are we?" barked Mr Pyper.

"Sir, it's-it's just got a few clothes and my books." Dean tried his best to speak clearly, knowing how Mr Pyper hated it when he stammered, but the words just didn't seem to want to come.

"Give it to me." Sir snatched the back from his hands and turned it upside down. "Did you pay for any of these?"

Dean looked up at the Winchesters. They looked slightly horrified, probably at the threadbare state of the clothes.

_Having second thoughts about taking me in are we? Realised how disgusting I am?_

He pushed the cynical thoughts to the back of his head as he remembered he'd been asked a question. "No sir."

"Well then they're not yours."

Dean reluctantly stepped away and turned to look at the trainers he'd been wearing for the last two years. There was a large tear in one of them, his classmates found it funny to call them 'holy shoes'. He'd laugh along while his ears turned crimson.

Mrs Pyper followed his gaze and commented before he could take another step. "The shoes aren't yours either."

Dean felt his stomach drop and the familiar sensation of burning ears as he wished his new guardians didn't have to see him for the possessionless freak he was.

_Doesn't matter. God knows what kind of work these people want you for, but it can't be anything good. You dare be fooled by their talk of college, you fucking dare. People don't do good things for screwed up little shits like you for no reason, only an idiot would believe otherwise._

The lady, Jane, seemed to get really angry at this and Dean only caught "I'm taking these shoes and I'd like to see you try to stop me" before he made a quick dash outside, eager to get out of the house before anyone decided to take their anger out on his skin.

He walked over to the Impala, admiring the sleek shape and the contrast between the black body and the chrome linings. It was much nicer than the car the Pypers owned, a white Ford Focus that Dean was always made to sit in the trunk of.

Unsure of himself, he hovered near the boot of the car, waiting for someone to open it up so he could slot himself in. He didn't have to wait too long. Mrs Winchester came storming out of the house and her husband followed soon after. She yanked the back door open and asked Sam to shuffle over to make room from Dean.

Hesitantly, Dean slid into the seat, feeling far too dirty for these clean leather seats and the bright smile on the kid sat next to him.

* * *

Sam had been burning to ask why Dean was coming with him all the way home but he'd sensed it wasn't the right time from the way both his parents' faces were pulled in a grimace. Dean had been sat next to him, huddled against the car door, as if trying to make himself as small as possible. It had been a tense, silent, ride home.

When they arrived at their house, Sam jumped out of the car and asked his Mum for the keys. He liked to be the one who opened the door, the one who stepped into the familiar comfort of their home first. Sam ran past the well-tended garden, in bloom with fragrant freesia, and onto the porch, where he fumbled with the keys. Having found the right one, he turned the handle and stepped in.

Only then did he remember their guest. He still wanted a reason for his presence (not that he minded, he found Dean quite cool, actually). Turning to watch the young man walk up the garden path behind his parents, Sam noticed the way he leaned slightly on his right leg, keeping it on the ground for longer than the left. Sam remembered when he'd last limped like that. It was when he'd sprained his ankle, he'd found it hard to walk for weeks and moaned the whole way through.

Dean's face betrayed nothing at all.

* * *

Dean studiously ignored the hazel set of eyes watching him from the doorway as he made his way up the garden. The place seemed nice, the modesty of the suburban three-bedroom house felt pleasant after the large, intimidating estate the Pypers had owned.

He stopped short when he caught sight of the metal rung at about waist height on the wall and the thick, black coil and lock that snaked around it.

Had they already known he was coming?

Mrs Winchester seemed to hear his footsteps stop. She stood, following his gaze as sir and Sam proceeded to enter the house.

"You know, you don't really have to chain me up or anything. I'm not actually violent and I won't hit back if you hurt me," he bit his lip. He could imagine the cold, miserable, winter nights already. "I'll work hard and won't take up much room. Please don't tie me up outside." He knew the words were futile but he couldn't stop them from slipping out anyway.

He looked up through his lashes to see Mrs Winchester's light brown eyes looking back at him in utter horror. He looked back down at the ground, ashamed, before risking another glance up. The shock had receded and something softer, and eternally sadder, had taken its place.

"That bicycle lock is a relic of Michael's cycling fad, that's all. The bike was barely getting used so we sold it off but I guess we never got rid of the chain."

Dean nodded uncertainly. Well, maybe they'd suddenly find it had been a good move to keep the lock. After all, delinquents can't cause trouble when they can barely move.

"Let's get inside. I need to just make some food quickly and then we have a lot to discuss." She offered her hand and he slowly reached out to take it, pulling back at the last instant as his tips of his fingers brushed against the warmth of her palm.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't trust her, not like he trusted the Pypers, not like he'd trusted his father. But as he watched as she pulled her arm back in with hurt eyes and felt the warmth dissipate from his fingertips, he wondered if maybe there would someday be people he could hold on to forever.

_Bullshit. They'll always leave you. They always do._

* * *

Michael knew from the looks he was getting from his son that he'd need to do some explaining soon.

He ushered Sam into the conservatory and sat him down. Knowing no easy way to start, he dived in. "Dean's going to be living with us from now on."

Sam looked confused. "But what about Mr and Mrs Pyper?"

"Well, they didn't really want him anymore. We felt we should help him out, no kid deserves to be thrown out like that." Michael looked at Sam pleadingly, hoping there wouldn't be too many awkward questions. Seeing his serious nod, he continued. "Dean might seem a little different at first but I need you to persevere and help him. Do you think you could do that for me, Sam?"

Sam nodded again. "Persevere means to keep trying until things work out, right?"

It was Michael's turn to nod. Maybe this would work out more smoothly than expected. He'd been worried about Sam not wanting a sibling, not wanting another kid in the house. However, now he thought about it, Sam had always been a little lonely, though he tried his best to hide it behind books. Maybe this would be good for both the children in the house.

"Dean stuck with me even when I started asking him my sandwiches question. So yeah, I'll persevere with Dean." Sam smiled at his father and Michael felt proud of having raised such an understanding son.

He was heading to the door when Sam piped up again. "I think Dean might have hurt his leg. He's limping a lot, like I did when I'd twisted my ankle."

Michael turned back to the floppy haired kid and gave him a quick smile. "Alright champ, I'll look into it, thanks for telling me."

Sam grinned back and bounced out and up the stairs, probably back to the laptop he'd received yesterday for his birthday. Meanwhile, Michael steeled himself for what was clearly going to be a far more challenging conversation with his other son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was writing a chapter for later and I thought I could do with mentioning this.
> 
> Dean will be intelligent in this story, and will do pretty well in school. He won't be book-obsessed by any means and he'll still love the things we see he loves in the show, but he won't exactly be the don't-give-a-damn-about-school sort of Dean we see in After School Special (though, once again, I will explain in the story why this is).
> 
> I don't think this is out of character in any way seen as in the show we see he's built an EMF meter out of a Walkman, he's capable of doing solo hunts (which would include the research), in It's a Terrible Life he's even got one of the top posts in a company as a result of a more stable home life and a proper education, and he can remember so many quotes and make such a multitude of references, I reckon he'd definitely have flourished given the opportunity to do so.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean looked around the living room, liking it more than the Pyper living room already. There was a light smattering of dust and there were a couple of copies of National Geographic and Time lying around.

_It looks like people actually live here, that's what it is._

It felt far more inviting than the pristine, showroom-like, immaculate room in his old home that had held the term  _living room_ despite not looking lived in at all.

While Dean deliberated for a while on whether he could risk sitting on the couch or not, he found his hands itching to straighten the cushions. At his last home, the sofa had been decorated with a set of green, velvet, cushions from Paris (Dean used to love running his fingers over them, the smooth velvet felt too good to sit on). Mrs Pyper used to get really pissed if the cushions weren’t aligned. A shudder raced down his spine at the memory of a belt landing along the length of his vertebrae.

_Definitely not worth risking sitting down._

A few minutes later, Mr Winchester came out.

"Dean, would you mind taking a seat and taking your trousers off so I can have a look at your leg?" he asked with a smile. “And while you’re at it, do you think you could remove your shirt too? There’s some blood on it and I think that needs to be checked.”

No. No no no. No  _way_ was this happening again. He'd been a damn fool. There had been the perfect opportunity to make a run for it when they’d parked up and he’d left it. He really didn’t know if he could go through with this again.

He felt himself back up slowly against the plasma screen TV. Feeling it against his fingers, he moved to the side where the door was, hoping there may still be a chance he could still escape. One hand snaked its way into his pocket, feeling the smooth metal underneath his thumb, pressing down to feel the blunt pain. He gripped the cool metal tight, willing himself to keep breathing.

"Dean? What’s wrong?" Mr Winchester looked genuinely confused.

 _What's wrong? What's wrong with_ me _? What's wrong with_ you,  _you sick fuck! You’ve got a wife and son! I bet you've never got him to take his trousers off and spread his legs!_

"Stay the hell back." he said with as much courage as he could muster. That didn’t really help the situation as Mrs Winchester came out to see what the commotion was.

_Awesome. An audience. Just what the doctor fucking ordered._

It was no use. He could fight it but a lack of cooperation simply leading to rougher handling and less lube. And that was the last thing he needed after spending two years out of the ring.

He felt all resistance drain out of him as he reached for the waistband of his trousers. Nonetheless, even as he snaked his hands down, he could feel Sam’s mum’s gaze on him.

He stepped out of the jeans and willed his voice not to break. “Alright, where do you want me?” Sir gestured towards the couch. Dean went over and lay down before mumbling into the armrest, “Does your wife really have to watch as you fuck me?”

 

* * *

 

Jane stared numbly at the cut on the boy’s calf and the monstrosity of a bruise covering a fair part of his right thigh, trying to think of anything but what the kid had just said.

“What?” said Michael, dumbly.

“Nothing,” said Dean, as he buried his head in the armrest again.

The adults continued to stare in horrified silence. Dean popped his head up again. “Any chance I could have some lube?”

Michael broke his trance first. “Dean, I- we- wh-what do you mean? Do you seriously think I’d-”

Dean cringed and shuffled into himself on the sofa. “I’m sorry, I’ll be fine without lube. Sorry to ask.”

“Christ! I-I didn't mean it like that, really, I swear on Jane and Sam’s lives! I'd just wanted to see what was making you limp to work out whether we'd need to go to the doctors about it or not."

The kid,  _her_ kid, sat up slowly and looked at them both, his eyes filled with suspicion. “Really? You didn’t just bring me here to turn tricks?”

“No! God no! What made you think that?” asked Jane, doing her best to keep the horror out of her voice.

“Sir told me to take off my clothes so I thought-” he stopped, blushing.

“We don’t want you to do anything like that and we’re really sorry that you’ve ever had to,” said Michael, his voice on the verge of breaking.

Lucas Pyper was going to burn in Hell once Jane was done with him.

Dean shrugged and hope seemed to flit momentarily across his face. “So you’re like the Pypers then? You just want me to do the chores and make sure all the housework’s done? I’m a bit stupid but I can do that. I’m good at that.”

Okay, fair enough, she hadn’t just been sat in the house of a child molester, but that didn’t stop Jane’s heart from breaking. It was never going to be a clogged artery or too much salt that would kill her, it would be that eager grin and that cheerful, slightly desperate, voice. She went over, suppressing the jolt of sadness in her stomach at the way the kid flinched at her approach, and sat down.

“We didn’t bring you here for that.” Michael came over and knelt by her side. “Dean, I’ve heard you’re violent, lazy, unstable and stupid.” The boy started to shake his head before stopping suddenly. “But I don’t think that’s true and I want to hear your side of it. Why don’t  _you_  tell us about Dean?”

Dean glanced up and mumbled, “What do you want to know?”

“Anything you feel comfortable telling us.”

An awkward silence settled on the trio, the adults watching the kid size them up. Finally, with the quickest eye roll Jane had ever seen, Dean coughed and said, “Uh, I like Led Zep and I’m kind of good at maths.”

“Alright, that’s great, I’m a maths teacher and I like Led Zeppelin too,” said Jane, “Which song’s your favourite?”

“I dunno, it’s a tie between Ramble On and Travelling Riverside Blues I guess,” Dean shrugged.

Jane was about to reply with her favourites but Michael, who had been staring at Dean’s shirt for a while, got in there first. “Dean, do you think we could have a look at your back once, I’m just a little scared of the blood that’s on your shirt.”

With great reluctance, Dean lifted the old, grey shirt over his head. Jane held back a gasp while her eyes widened as she took in the battered body. The sixteen year old's chest was covered in patches of dark blue bruises, each with a clear centre where the hits had landed.

Dean smiled weakly at their gawking. "I hear pictures last longer."

Jane leaned over and gave him a hug, ignoring the way he pulled away weakly. As her arms wrapped round the skinny kid, her hands fell on his back on what were ( _oh god oh god oh god)_  clear welts.

"Dean? Can we see your back?" said Jane, dreading what else the boy may be hiding.

Dean turned to reveal a crosshatch of thin white scars covering the expanse of his back with a handful of larger welts on top of them.

Jane swallowed down bile. “Could we ask how you got these?” She meant to gesture only towards the injuries but found that that was practically the same as waving her hand up and down his body.

Michael’s eyes grew dark at the lack of a reply. “Did that Pyper son of a bitch do this to you?”

 “Just the newer stuff, the white ones are from when I was with my dad.” Then, in an attempt at a cheerier, reassuring, tone, he added, "The Pypers were never that mean to me, most of their stuff probably won’t leave permanent scars."

Jane felt tears of frustration build up. She should be the one doing the comforting here.

"How long ago did you get that last set of marks?" asked Michael.

"Yesterday. It was sort of a continuation of my punishment from Thursday for breaking ma’am’s mum’s glass ornament.” Dean shrugged. Jane found his acceptance of his fate quite maddening.

“And that?” He gestured towards the black bruise on his leg.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to us, Dean. If Sam was hurt, we’d want to know what happened, so it’s the same with you.”

The only reply was a stony glare and silence.

Jane knelt next to the boy on the couch, “All we want to do is help, Dean. I promise.”

“I don’t think you even know the kid you’re trying to help,” he muttered. “This one’s from the day before yesterday, because I did something really bad.”

“What did you do?” whispered Jane, eyes wide.

He looked at the empty fireplace and started to speak quietly. “Ma’am was crying because I’d knocked over the figurine and Kate hated to see her mum cry, which I get,” he sighed and shifted his feet, “So she got a frying pan out and told me to stand still. I could see her arm swing back, aiming for my face, and- an’ I chickened out and dodged it. She got really mad and went to try again but luckily Mr Pyper came in and told her the head was off limits. So she swung at my leg, over and over, until I couldn’t stand anymore.”

He turned back to Jane and Michael, that heartbreakingly earnest look on his face again. “I get I was bad and that’s why the Pypers didn’t want me anymore, and I get that you’ll probably have to kick me out sooner or later after I screw up. But I can really work hard and do anything you want me to, really.”

Jane hated to admit it, but it scared her a little how easily the kid flickered from defiance to obedience.

Michael leaned forward and took the kid’s hands into his own, ignoring the slight recoil. “We just want you to try your best and work hard in school and have a chance at making the most of your life. We want nothing more than for a bright, lovely, kid like you to have a place they can call home. Somewhere they know they’ll be cared for, no matter what.” He let go as those green eyes started brimming and the tears threatened to spill. “I think we’ll need a visit to the doctor’s tomorrow.”

"Don’t bother, the ribs aren’t broken. I checked to see if they were cracked and they're fine." he said gruffly, demonstrating how he checked by gliding his fingers over his ribs, pressing down lightly while clenching his teeth against the pain. "See sir, they're not broken."

"I believe you son, I really do. I just still think it'd be good if the doctor could give you some painkillers."

Looking down, Dean sniffled before replying quietly, "But I don't have any money to buy painkillers."

Jane wanted to get into the car and go hit every single person that had made Dean pay for necessities in his short life.

“We’d never dream of making either of our sons pay,” she said, meeting Dean’s puzzled gaze. “I mean it. We’ll get the adoption papers sorted out tomorrow.”

She didn’t think her heart could hurt any more than it already did, but watching the suspicion, disbelief, fear and, ultimately, the slightest flicker of trust dance in his eyes as he wiped away tears and gave a weak nod proved her wrong.

“And Dean, we need you to tell us if you’re hurt anywhere else or if you need anything,” said Michael.

"I'm fine, sir." The trust was gone, replaced by the protective wall the kid could hide behind.

Michael knelt next to the arm of the couch. "Why are you scared of us, Dean?”

Dean let out a shaky breath. "I’m not stupid. I know you’ll kick me out if you think I'm too weak to work," he whispered.

"I gave my word to you Dean, we'll treat you as family, we want you to be happy and fulfill your dreams. We didn't bring you here to work."

“Okay,” said Dean, his answer too quick to be anything more than appeasement. He reached over for his shirt and started pulling it on. Jane watched the scarred, wounded, skin disappear underneath dull grey and wondered how many times Dean had been hurt badly and had just suffered through it when he really needed to see a doctor. She found she didn't really want to think about it. Dean had noticed her staring and said, "I know you don't believe me, but I promise you I don't have any infections. I won't spread anything to Sam."

"It's not like that, we'd not kick you out even if you did." said Jane.

Dean’s all-too-quick nod did little to mask his doubt. Jane knew that doubt would take a long time in going.

_Shit._

She remembered the soup tins she had opened and then abandoned. They'd left the Pyper household without eating dinner, it was a wonder Sam wasn’t down already complaining about how he was  _starving_  and he might  _die_  any second without food.

"Well, I had better go make dinner, I'm guessing you're hungry by now?"

"I'm fine ma'am."

Looking at his skeletal figure, she decided to ask a more objective question. "When did you last eat, honey?"

Dean thought for a moment. "Uhh, I’ve been banned from food since I broke the figurine… so I guess that means since breakfast on Thursday."

Jane froze as she realised Dean would never admit he was anything but fine. It didn’t matter that you hadn’t eaten for over two days and had bruises the size of the Grand Canyon, you showed nothing and said you were fine. She felt a lump rise up in her throat.

"Is there anything you're allergic to?"

Dean shook his head. Jane wasn't sure if that was completely true of if he'd just said that to not anger her. She decided to leave it for the moment.

"Michael, come give me a hand in the kitchen, let's give Dean some peace."

With that, Jane strode into the kitchen, trying to think of anything but the criss-cross of white lines with the angry red welts on top.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean sat back and closed his eyes, willing his mind to think anything but the same, dangerous thought over and over again.

_These people don't seem half bad._

Nuh uh, he'd made that mistake already, he wasn't going to repeat it.

When he'd been fourteen, his father had once gotten really mad and snapped his arm. The bone had been sticking out and even the hardened Dean Hall hadn't been able to keep in the sobs of pain. Not willing to lose his investment, his father had rushed him to the emergency department where the staff had first started suspecting neglect and abuse.

Rex Hall had put on an act alright. He had sobbed and shouted and pleaded- anything to keep his poor, darling baby. The doctor, a gentle old man who’d been the first person to touch Dean in kindness in fourteen years, had left the police out of the equation and just delivered Dean to the social services.

The social services lady had made many promises to him. She'd told him he'd be placed with a nice family, he'd be allowed to play with children his own age, no one would ever lay a hand on him again. They had all been lies. 

Dean didn't blame her in any way. He'd been the one that was stupid enough to think maybe he deserved love. He had allowed himself to believe he could be like the kids he went to school with. Stupid, gullible, fourteen year old Dean had walked into the Pyper household with a head full of dreams of having a brother and sister called Max and Kate, of having a mum and dad called Muriel and Lucas.

The first day was the hardest. He remembered every single line that had killed another part of him that still dared to hope.

_Why did you get out five desserts? Put one back._

_Get off that chair, you sit on the floor when you eat._

_I'll spare you the belt today, but from now on, if I ever hear the word 'dad' instead of 'sir' from you again, I'll be less generous._

_What are you stood there for, boy? The dishes won't wash themselves._

Still, things had been pretty good. He got to sleep on the couch rather than on the floor. He was allowed to wear Max’s castoffs (which were in better shape than anything Dean had been used to wearing). He even got to eat about once a day as long as he behaved and when he didn't, the beatings were bad but only once or twice a week. But best of all, no one ever touched him like his father’s friends had. He almost believed he could be clean again.

_Almost. Not being touched was never enough to stop the nightmares._

He didn't think those would ever leave.

Slowly feeling himself drifting off, he shook himself awake. He didn't know of he was allowed to sleep yet and he sure as hell wasn't risking in here, in an unknown place. Mrs Pyper used to get pretty fucking furious if he fell asleep without doing the dishes and Kate and Max's homework first.

_But Sam seems so different to the Pyper kids and Mr and Mrs Winchester will even pay to go to the doctor. Maybe... Just maybe..._

To stop himself from getting hopeful, Dean thought about the books he'd left behind. As he started to mentally form a list, Sam walked in and sat down on the sofa, turning on the TV to flick through channels.

"What would you like to watch?" asked Sam. God, he really was so different to Kate, who'd have told him to get off the couch by now.

"Uhh, not really watched much TV." An understatement if there ever was one. His father hadn't even owned a TV and the only chances in the Pyper household were by peering round the doorway while vacuuming or scrubbing the kitchen. He'd heard a lot about it in school so he did know the names of most superheroes and the odd TV character. Not wanting to miss an opportunity to get to see something he'd only really heard about, he asked for the show that got mentioned most. "Is The Simpsons on?"

"You like The Simpsons? I  _love_ The Simpsons! I want to be like Bart but really I think I'm more like Lisa," he finished sheepishly and Dean nodded along, feeling warm inside at being spoken to like that.

One would think he was almost human.

Sam turned on The Simpsons and Dean was surprised to find it was a cartoon filled with yellow people. He wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Who's your favourite character?" asked Sam, as he edged towards him on the couch.

He found himself smiling at being asked his opinion. Then, slowly, the smile faded as he realised he didn't have a clue what the characters were like. He also found he didn't want Sam to know how limited his knowledge on such matters was.

"I like Bart, you?" replied Dean, feeling it was a safe bet seen as Sam wanted to be like Bart.

"Yeah, Bart's cool!" He grinned again as he did a bad impression of the yellow guy with the spiky hair onscreen. "'Eat my shorts!'"

Dean grinned and did an even worse impression back, saying the last line that had just been said. "'Ay caramba!’"

"Wow man, I thought I was bad!"

"Oh you are, midget!" Dean replied easily, then remembered who he was talking to. It was so easy to forget this was the son of the couple who, for all intents and purposes, now owned him. He felt unnervingly free with him, which was never a good thing.

"I'm sorry" said Dean, looking down and fiddling with his hands.

"What are you sorry about?"

"Shouldn't have called you midget. Your impression was very good" he answered gruffly. He sat and waited for the repercussions.

None came.

"Hey man, it's fine, I called your impression bad, you called mine bad, it's totally cool, no need to apologise."

Dean smiled and decided he could allow himself just a little bit of hope.

 

* * *

 

Jane couldn't help but watch the guarded way Dean ate, quietly but quickly, as if scared that if he drew attention to himself the food might be taken away. His bowl was quickly finished and polished with the bread.

When the Winchesters sat down for dinner, Dean had just stood at the side and stared with badly hidden longing at the simple bread and tomato soup on the table. She invited him over. He came and sat on the floor. Holding back tears, she told him it was alright for him to sit at the table. His awkward grin and sad attempt to hide his embarrassment had cut deep.

_‘I tend to be the one cleaning furniture, not the one using it.’_

Sam finished his bowl and got some seconds. Dean's eyes followed his hands as he got some more food, his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.

"Would you like some more, Dean?

"N-no thank you ma’am. You guys should take however much you want and- and I could maybe have what’s left over. Maybe. I mean, it’s fine if you just want to throw it away, I don’t need to eat any more-"

Jane shushed him and ladled out another bowlful before his rambling broke her already shattered heart any further. Dean murmured something to himself.

"Sorry dear, I didn't catch that."

Dean blushed. "I was just saying to myself the food tastes better when it's warm."

Jane pushed the bowl towards him, wondering how many more revelations she could take. "How long as it been since you last had warm food?"

"Two years, I got to have some fish cakes and mash at the group home."

Jane nodded and asked another question even if she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer. "What are you used to eating?"

"Leftovers from after the Pypers have eaten." he paused, then added quietly, with a small grin, "It was great when Muriel or Kate went on a diet, meant there was more for me."

Jane smiled back but her heart wasn't in it, her heart was busy currently fighting a battle with the brain about leaning over the table and hugging Dean. The brain won and Jane settled for just saying, "Well, you can eat as much as you want here as long as it's healthy food."

Dean nodded and returned to his soup. Jane was relieved to see he wasn't guarding it as heavily now.

Half an hour later, Michael was doing the washing up, having hurried Dean out of the kitchen when he'd come in to do it. Jane puttered around, clearing the table and surreptitiously tidying things as she went along, not wanting her home to look messy for their guest.

_Not guest, member of the family now._

"You boys need to go brush your teeth, I think it's time for bed. Sam, give Dean a new toothbrush and show him where the bathroom is, will you?"

Seeing the hesitation in Dean’s face, she asked, “What’s wrong, Dean? Still feeling a little out of it?”

“No ma’am, it’s just that I don’t have the money to pay for a new toothbrush. I can use a discarded one if you’ve got any?”

Jane found she didn’t really have the words to reply to that. Thankfully, Michael took over.

“You don’t have to pay for anything, I promise. We earn more than enough to support another kid and we genuinely want to do this because you’re a good kid, Dean.”

Hope and disbelief battled in his eyes once again, but he settled for a nod and walked up the stairs with Sam. Jane started cleaning the remnants of soup from around the stove as Michael washed the dishes.

“We haven’t gotten in over our heads, have we?” asked Jane.

“I-I don’t know. I just think about the lies that Lucas fed me, the fact I’d even considered them… Heck, I don’t even know how I’ll face that bastard in work on Monday.” It was rare to hear Michael swear, Jane was the swearer in the couple.

“You can’t let him get to you, you really mustn’t. You’ve worked too hard to get to where you are to throw it all away. Besides, we’ve got another kid now and we’ve said he’ll be raised like Sam. We’ve got to be practical as well, I guess.”

“I know, I know, I’ll keep my distance. But I apologise in advance for my fist accidentally slipping and connecting with his nose.”

Jane smiled, knowing her husband to be better at keeping a cool head than she’d ever been. If it had been her who had to go into work with Lucas after knowing what she knew now, she’d not get through a day without an arrest warrant being issued in her name.

“It’s not going to be easy, but he’ll learn to trust us. As I said to Sam, we have to persevere with him.” Michael said as he dried the last dish.

And they would. Because that kid, with the bright green eyes and defense-mechanism humour, would always be worth it.

 

* * *

 

Sam watched as Dean reluctantly squeezed some toothpaste out of the tube.

“Are you sure your parents won’t mind?”

“One hundred percent. By the way, do you know why we use the word ‘percent’?” Sam ploughed on without waiting for an answer, eager to tell the older boy about what he’d read recently, “It’s because per means ‘for every’ and cent is Latin for ‘one hundred’ so percent means ‘for every one hundred’. Cool isn’t it?”

Dean returned Sam’s smile and asked, “You’re into maths?”

“Yeah, I’m on the school mathlete team, you?”

“Yeah, it’s alright I guess,” replied Dean.

Conversation stopped as their mouths filled with toothpaste. It was becoming apparent that Dean was going to be pretty fun to have around. He liked maths and The Simpsons so he was clearly a pretty cool guy, Sam found he didn’t even mind being called midget. There was one niggling thought at the back of his mind, but he decided to ignore it for now.

Once they were done, Dean went out to the stairs where Jane was coming up.

“Um, would it be ok if I could sleep on the couch?” he asked quietly.

“But-“

“It’s fine, I can sleep on the floor, sorry to be a bother,” he interjected as he blushed and ducked his head.

Sam watched, confused. Why would his Mum not let him sleep on the couch? Why would she make him sleep on the floor? That didn’t sound like her at all.

“Dean, dear, I wouldn’t dream of making you sleep on the floor. I was going to ask you to sleep in the guest room, would that be ok?” Sam’s world righted itself again momentarily before he considered what Dean’s comment said about him.

Dean nodded and grinned sheepishly. “You guys are awesome,” he mumbled.

They went off into their bedrooms and Sam got into his pyjamas. He wondered what his brother was going to wear seen as he didn’t seem to have brought much with him from Mr Pyper’s house.

_You just thought of him as your brother. That’s a bit weird._

_Then again, that’s what you call another kid who lives in the same house as you and Dad said that’s what Dean would be doing._

_Doesn’t really matter if you’re not related._

With that thought, Sam shrugged and tried once again to shut up the little part of his mind that kept asking the same question over and over again.

_Will they stop loving you now that Dean’s here?_


	6. Chapter 6

Dean jerked upright. There was light streaming into the room, a clear sign he'd overslept. Bleary eyed, he tried to get off the couch and drag himself to the kitchen to start work before anyone woke up.

Except he found he wasn't on the couch.

And there was a warm, clean blanket on him.

The events of the previous day came back to him, along with an odd feeling of cautious optimism. It had been too good to be true and yet here he was, on a proper bed with a proper blanket.

Feeling unsure of what to do, he got off the bed and made it so it looked like no one had slept in it. Sure, they'd told him to sleep in that room but it could all be a test and maybe he was still expected to sleep on the floor. Such people annoyed the hell out of him.

Tiptoeing downstairs, Dean headed into the kitchen where he could hear pans rattling.

"Hello Dean, sleep well?"

"Very well thank you, ma'am," said Dean, wondering how Mrs Winchester would react to that. He'd never really stayed with anyone who reacted positively to his happiness, so he reckoned it'd probably be a decent litmus test of how long he could last here with most of his skin intact.

It came as a pleasant surprise when Mrs Winchester smiled kindly. "Glad to hear it," she said, "and you don't have to call me ma'am all the time you know. Jane, or even Mum, would be fine." Her voice became so hopeful towards the end that Dean wondered if she was really serious about taking him on as another son.

Nevertheless, he knew he'd find it too difficult to call her by her name- it went against everything the adults he'd lived with had ever taught him. Calling her 'mum' was out of the question. He refused to get attached, just to have her betray his trust. It was plain stupid to do that.

"I might have to stick to sir and ma'am until I get used to calling you anything else, will that be okay?"

She looked like she might argue, but instead settled for, "Okay then. What do you like in your porridge?"

"Um, sugar would be nice, if you could spare any?" mumbled Dean, hoping he hadn't overstepped any boundaries to their kindness. Then again, she  _had_ asked what he liked.

_Doesn't mean she can't fucking beat you up for answering anyway._

Mrs Winchester had been speaking but he'd been too lost in memories of times when he'd asked for something and received something altogether more painful. "Sorry ma'am, I missed what you said." Without meaning to, he could feel his back tense in anticipation of a belt.

"No worries, I was just saying that I'll put a spoon of extra sugar in yours," she said with a wink, "and that Michael will be taking you to the doctor for a check-up." She must have seen the panic in his eyes, for she added, "Don't worry, she will be completely confidential and she won't harm you in any way."

"I've got no problem with doctors. Hell, a doctor rescued me from my father in the first place," his voice grew gravelly with bitter memories, "it's just- just I don't like getting undressed in front of others."

She stopped staring and gave him a look that was both gentle and yet sad. Dean was just thankful for the lack of condescending pity.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

Dean shrugged. He didn't really want to, but he could see the masked order for what it was. The Pypers had interrogated him on his past too. He just hoped that maybe this family wouldn't use it against him in quite the same way.

"Not much to say, really. Mum died giving birth to me and Dad kinda lost himself to the grief. He beat me up because I managed to fuck up everything I tried to do. Then he found I was an easy source of cash so he started renting me out to men who wanted to sleep with ten year old boys. One day, I pissed a client off really badly. I think I might have asked him if Cialis could fix his little condition or some other stupid shit like that. The guy refused to continue and wanted his money back, dad got pissed and broke my arm. We went to the hospital and the doctor gave me to Social Services, about it really."

There. That was it. The Winchesters now knew just how dirty he was. He wondered if it was the end of the line for him now. And just as he'd started to get fond of the bed and the warm food.

"The fucking bastard," whispered Mrs Winchester.

Okay, maybe not then.

Dean fought the urge to grin. He had to admit it, Mrs Winchester was cool for swearing like that. Dean had always been punished for his runaway mouth, but finally here was an adult that was just as bad.

"Don't tell Michael I swore in front of you, ok?" she said conspiratorially with an attempt at a smile through the glistening eyes, "And I don't advise swearing in general, but yeah, I'm not going to be a hypocrite about it."

Dean let a little bit of the grin slip through. He was finding it very difficult to not trust this woman.

And if he could trust this woman, even just a little bit, then maybe he could ask for something too.

"Ma'am, do you think you could, um, maybe not tell Sam about all the stuff I told you yesterday and just now? It's just-," he paused and wrung his hands, knowing he was asking her to hide things from her real son because of his own battered pride. "Just, he seems to kind of like me and I don't want him to hate me because of this stuff."

Mrs Winchester surprised him once again. "He wouldn't hate you even if he knew, but I understand. You can tell him yourself, if you ever feel like it, but I'll never mention anything to him."

Dean looked up at those milk chocolate eyes and knew she really meant it. Eyes that lie either refuse to look at you completely or stare at you with too much effort. She did neither. Dean couldn't really explain, not even to himself, why that was so important.

All he knew was that he couldn't bear the thought of the twelve year old kid that was probably rolling out of bed right now knowing anything of his sordid past. It didn't matter that by twelve he'd already learnt to hate what he saw in the mirror, Sam was different. Sam, with his floppy hair and incredible concern over the popularity of certain sandwiches, didn't deserve to lose his innocence by knowing who he shared a house with.

"Thank you," said Dean, gruffly.

A couple of hours later, after a heavenly breakfast of warm porridge (he'd risked seconds last night but had decided as he drifted off to sleep that the novelty of a bed underneath him and a blanket on top wasn't worth losing over extra food he didn't really need. Besides, if he didn't take seconds, one of the Winchesters could have it. They were clean, honest, folk who deserved it more than a used up hooker like him.), he was bundled into the car with Mr Winchester to go see the doctor.

'Eye of the Tiger' was playing out of the speakers at they drove up to the surgery in the middle of town. Dean closed his eyes and drowned himself in the music, trying not to think about taking his clothes off in front of someone once again. All too soon, the music was switched off and Dean was forced to walk into the surgery and sit on the examination table in the doctor's room.

The surgery had a clean and friendly feel to it, the doctor a recent graduate and more than a little hot. Dean found himself feeling even more self-conscious about revealing his body to her.

_Maybe we can make a deal, I'll remove my clothes if she'll remove hers._

Knowing his attempts at crude humour were just ways for him to stall the inevitable, he forced himself back to his present situation and took off his shirt to reveal his pale, freckled, skin. The stupid bruises were as prominent as ever, though the welts were stinging much less than before, a solid night's sleep having worked its magic.

The lady, Dr Freeman, was gentle and quick.

"What were you hit with on your back?"

"A leather belt."

She nodded and scribbled.

"And the limp?"

"Repeated strikes to the right leg with the edge of a frying pan."

"How about the scars on your wrist?" Dean saw Mr Winchester tense, this hadn't been spotted the night before. Two white lines circled his left wrist. They were visible but only just, the pretty lady was clearly just as sharp as she was gorgeous (and that was saying something because God, she was  _hot_ ). He knew what they looked like and was thoroughly ashamed of them.

"Dad used to handcuff me to the radiator when I was little while he went out. One time, he forgot to turn it off."

Dr Freeman pursed her lips and continued the examination of his chest. Satisfied that indeed, like Dean had told her earlier, none of the ribs were cracked, she asked to see his legs. Dean blushed as he revealed his boxers, hole et al.

Bless her, she pretended not to notice, but you could see the pity in her eyes. Dean had gotten good at reading eyes.

"I want you to rest your right leg as much as you can. It doesn't seem so bad that I need to burden you with crutches, but rest will do it good. I'll write you some painkillers that I want you to take if the pain gets bad. You're a strong lad, Dean, you've been through a lot. Now we just need to make you better and just put all the pain behind you." She said as Dean hopped off the table and redressed himself.

Dean wished it was that easy.

* * *

Michael looked to his left to see Dean looking stoic as ever as they stood at some traffic lights on the way home. He knew this must have been hard for the kid and the boy's resilience made him feel a certain respect for him. Nevertheless, Michael wished Dean would show his pain a little more, allow Michael to help him.

Not that he had any idea of how he could even begin to help Dean.

His fear of Michael was understandable, from what Jane had told him of their morning conversation, Michael's father had been the vilest sort of man and Lucas hadn't been all that much better. No wonder Dean thought Michael would be no different.

_'Does your wife really have to watch as you fuck me?'_

The deep, yet broken, voice played over in his head again and again as he waited for the lights to change. Seeing Dean's battered body again today hadn't been any easier, even if he'd been prepared for what was coming. The patchwork of multicoloured skin, the mammoth black one on his thigh that stood out from the rest, they all made him want to vomit and use one of Jane's choicer swears: fuckbugger.

_There were the boxers too._

That basta-nasty piece of work, Lucas, hadn't even let the little kid have new underwear. He could tell from Dean's red cheeks that the hole in his underwear was embarrassing him more than the lacerations on his body.

He thought of Sam, who'd never had to think twice about fresh underwear. That was how a kid should be, not ashamed at the doctor's because the adult responsible for him couldn't be bothered to provide him with basic necessities.

When they reached a T-junction, instead of taking the right that would lead to home, Michael took a left.

"We're going shopping."

* * *

Dean couldn't help but make a list of what the catch might be. He didn't think they were likely to hire him out to johns, seen as they seemed genuinely disgusted at the thought of whoring him out. Neither did they seem to want him for housework; every offer he'd made to do the chores had been refused.

_Maybe they just want someone to look after Sam, like a nanny or something._

If he was going to be allowed to go to college and provided for as he had been until now, he figured he could live with that catch. Hell, more than live with it, he'd embrace it with open arms.

Both men were wandering around a department store, looking comically lost. Mr Winchester had suggested they look here before they tried any of the second hand stores that Dean had gone into on instinct. He didn't really know of the existence of clothes that hadn't been worn by someone else. Even when he'd lived with his father, he'd worn tight-fitting clothes salvaged from local car boot sales.

"Uh, is anything standing out to you?"

"I'm still confused as to why I can't just wear Sam's clothes. I really can't afford any of these."

Sir gritted his teeth and Dean wondered what he'd done wrong.

"You're older and taller than him, wouldn't make sense to give you his clothes." He said with a sigh.

Dean nodded and looked at the high end, 'trendy' clothes again. "These look like the things the douchebags at school would wear."

Mr Winchester laughed and then seemed to remember himself. Suppressing a smile, he said, "Easy on the language, kid, I doubt they deserve to be called douchebags."

Dean relaxed at the fact there were no physical repercussions for his uncontrollable mouth but he thought about what sir had just said.

_Maybe they weren't the douchebags. Maybe it was just you who should have tried harder to fit in._

Of course, smelly, tattered, clothes never went down well in an upper class private school. So really, he should have expected the jibes, taunts and occasional roughhousing he faced from the kids who didn't want the likes of him in their school. But it wasn't really his fault, and the little part of him that refused to believe his own bullshit knew that that made those guys no better than douchebags.

"Are you alright, Dean? I didn't mean the telling off all that harshly, just not everybody is as easy about bad language as Jane and I are." Michael practically looked  _guilty_ about the minor reprimand he'd administered.

Dean found he wouldn't mind a telling off if it was always explained to him exactly why he was being chastised.

"I'm fine sir, I apologise for before."

They had arrived at the cheaper end of the shop where the generic, unbranded clothes were. Cautiously, Mr Winchester picked out a bright orange shirt. Dean grimaced.

"Yeah, you're right, this one could probably blind," said Mr Winchester sheepishly, putting the shirt back. "I'll be honest with you, I don't have a clue what I'm doing here. So why don't you have a look around and find what you like and we'll go with that?"

"You sure?"

Mr Winchester nodded. Slowly, Dean ran his hand along the rack and picked out a couple of dark blue shirts with the cheapest price tags.

"I don't know what size I am, sir."

"There are some changing rooms over there. Why don't we pick some more stuff out, some jeans and trousers too, and you can go try them all on."

"Thank you." said Dean, staring at the floor and wondering when he'd wake from this dream.

"Don't worry about it, son." Michael leaned over to ruffle his hair.

For once, Dean didn't flinch. Instead, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of the hand in his hair.

_I don't know how long this is going to last, but I might as well enjoy it while it does._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liliaeth asked a really good question about why Dean was sent to an expensive private school by the Pypers. While parts of this answer will pop up later (so look away if you don't want really minor spoilers), it is never fully addressed.
> 
> Dean is fourteen when he first moves in with the Pypers. In the UK, you start your GCSEs at fourteen, the first qualifications that really mean something. Max is a couple of months younger than Dean and so they're in the same year group. I imagined that when the Pypers took in Dean, they clued onto the fact that Dean was pretty bright and if you applied pressure in the right areas (threats regarding his father) you could get the kid to do almost anything, including Max's coursework (though he wouldn't be able to sit the exams. But the coursework can still count for a fair bit of the final grade.). The Pypers, especially Lucas, have little faith in Max (which I'll explore later, he'll be popping up again) and probably wanted him to at least score highly in the coursework aspect, if not the final exams. 
> 
> Plus it was probably easier for they to get him in without too much fuss if it was a school that Mr Pyper already had connections with, bearing in mind his lack of paperwork and references.


	7. Chapter 7

“What do you mean there are no files in the name of Dean Pyper?” Jane tried to keep her voice from rising as the annoyingly polite social services lady gave the same, useless, reply.

“I understand that you’ve searched all your online databases, but isn’t there even a paper file?”

There came a pause and Jane dared to hope again. “Hold on, I’ll have a look,” came the reply.

Jane held the phone away from her face and let out a sigh. Bureaucracy was going to be the death of her.

She’d been trying for the last half an hour to get through to make enquiries into adopting Dean and until now, all she had was a plateful of jack with a side helping of squat. Despite numerous record searches and being redirected and put on hold often enough for her to contemplate coming over there and doing the bloody search for them, it seemed there really was no file on Dean Pyper.

Of course, there was a part of her that wasn’t surprised at all. After all, if there had been a file and regular checks, there would have been no way Dean could have been kept in the conditions he was in. Lucas Pyper was a man with a big name and a lot of money: a dangerous combination that could pull a lot of strings.

As the lady came back to tell her once again that there was nothing with that name and no one at the Pyper residence had ever adopted anyone, Jane knew she really only had one option.

Two buses, a short walk and a grumble about why they should own more than one car later, she was ringing the doorbell of the Pyper residence. There was a short pause, then the latch was opened and Muriel’s head popped out, all of the pleasant smiles of yesterday having been replaced by mild hostility.

“What do you want? The kid’s too much for you and you want to dump him back here? Because you know we won’t take him back,” she said, moving to shut the door.

Jane stepped forward, caught the door with her palm and shoved it open. The smell of chicken wafted towards them from the kitchen. “You might want to turn the gas off, there’s a fair bit I need to say to you two.”

Once Lucas had finally been able to leave his spreadsheets and come down and Muriel had sent Max and Kate off to their rooms, Jane began.

“You have no idea how fuc-” she stopped and took a breath, trying to stop her fists from shaking in rage, then continued, “how  _angry_  I am at what I’ve heard over the last twenty four hours-”

“You don’t believe his lies, do you?” interjected Lucas. “The boy’s a delinquent, surely you didn’t fall for the bullshit he spouted?”

“I saw the marks. You hit him, you starved him, you broke down his self-esteem until there was fuck all left and do you know what’s the worst bit?” She advanced closer, holding his gaze long enough to see the veneer of confidence disappear and a small spark of fear ignite. “Do you know what  _really_ pisses me off?” she whispered, “He defends you. He thinks you gave him what he deserved and no more. In his world, you’re the good guys.”

Jane looked from Pyper to Pyper, hoping to see even a little bit of regret, the slightest hint of shame. She might as well have been searching for water in a desert.

She turned to Muriel and continued. “So to answer your earlier question, no, we don’t want to  _dump_  Dean anywhere. But what’s interesting is that the foster care people are saying that there’s no file for Dean, that you two never even adopted a child. Mind shedding some light on that?”

Lucas sat down on the sofa with a smirk. “I had it shredded. I _persuaded_ one of the admin staff to remove all paper and digital files on Dean’s case to stop all home visits and checkups. Doesn’t matter anyway, no one would have been stupid enough to taken a bastard like him in.”

A second later, Jane was fisting his shirt and hauling him off the couch. “I dare you to speak of my son again like that,” she breathed, “I fucking dare you.”

But then she remembered her own words to Michael. She wasn’t going to be a hypocrite about this. But that didn’t stop half her mind from suggesting she break her promise to Dean and go to the police about these pieces of shit anyway.

_And watch him be betrayed by another person who can’t keep their word?_

_You remember his eyes, you remember his voice. Have you ever heard anything so broken?_

_“Please don’t. Sir, ma’am, I’ll do anything, but please don’t go to the police.”_

_“But Dean, they need to learn their lesson, they need to know that what they did was wrong.”_

_“I-I don’t trust them. They’ll send me back.” The last sentence barely above a whisper._

_“They won’t, they won’t send you back to the Pypers.”_

_A frantically shaking head. Wide, terrified, green eyes. “No, no, no, not to them. They-they’ll- they’ll…” Hitched breaths that give way to panicked wheezing. Jane and Michael on either side, guiding him onto his bed._

_“We won’t, we won’t, I promise,” she says. “Just take a deep breath for me.”_

_If she’s honest, a little part of her doesn’t want to hear exactly why the kid’s so scared. She’s afraid of what other part of her his revelations might shatter._

_Slowly, the boy stills._

Nonetheless, she might know that she’d never go to the police, but the couple in front of her didn’t. Jane tended to think of herself as someone with steadfast morals, but she guessed she was willing to bend them for family. Forcing a shark-like grin, she uncurled her fist and took a step back, taking in their horrified faces.

“As you’re so talented in the art of persuasion, you’re going to do a little persuading for me. I know you must have the contacts to have had Dean’s documents remade, so you’re going to utilise them to get him a new set made in the name of Dean Winchester.”

“Because you said so? Have you forgotten that your husband works under me?” blustered Lucas, having regained some of his composure.

 “It seems you’re the one who’s forgotten that I have more than enough evidence to go to the police regarding your physical and mental abuse of a minor. If a new birth certificate and passport don’t reach Michael by the end of next week, I’ll go to the police. If a set of Dean’s school records and references, with the name ‘Winchester’, don’t reach him by the end of next week, I’ll go to the police. If you harass my husband at work because of any of this, I’ll go to the police.”

She walked to the door and rested her hand on the handle, before turning round to face the abominations one last time and utter the one threat she well and truly meant. “If you hurt, or even try to contact, Dean ever again, I’ll make you wish I’d gone to the police.”

With that, she strode out.

 

* * *

 

Michael put down the shopping on the porch and fished out his keys. Dean had been quietly insisting on carrying the shopping but Michael had shushed him and told him the doctor had told him to rest his leg.

He’d barely managed to insert the key when the door opened from the other side.

“I couldn’t reach you on your mobile, I’m guessing you’d forgotten to turn it on again?” she sighed as she moved out of the way to make room for them to squeeze in.

“We detoured for a shopping spree, I wanted to see what Rebecca Bloomwood loved so much about it.”

They had ended up buying four sets of shirts and trousers, all in shades of blue, black and brown, despite Michael’s light teasing about how Dean could easily work neon pink.

“These look fine,” said Jane, looking over the clothes with a nod of approval. “But I need to talk to you both.”

“Go on,” said Michael, setting the bags down against the sofa.

“I tried to contact the Social Services regarding adopting Dean and they said they didn’t have anything on him. So I paid the Pypers a visit.”

Michael’s eyebrows shot up. “Please tell me they’re still alive.”

“Relax, I did nothing-” she paused when Michael scoffed, “Okay, I may have roughed Lucas up a little. But it turns out they had him removed from the system and his file shredded.”

Michael felt Dean shift beside him and heard him mutter “I could have told you that.”

“You could have?” asked Jane.

“Yeah, he made the call in front of me, told me afterwards that it was so that I couldn’t go crying to them if things got… difficult, now it was his way or the highway…” Dean scrunched his brow, “Okay, that sounded a lot better when he said it.”

Jane swallowed and nodded, “He’s now going to be delivering a new set of documents and school reports to you at work within the next week.”

“How did you get him to agree to that?” asked Michael, impressed.

 “I have my methods.” Jane shrugged, before turning to Dean. “Do you think you could take these clothes upstairs and put them in your wardrobe?”

Dean nodded and reached for the bags, before stopping abruptly and turning to face them both. “If you need anything doing, anything at all, I’ll do it for you. I can work and I can eat less…” he shrugged, “I- I just don’t know how to repay you.”

Michael had seen it coming. He knew there was no way the kid could accept kindness without looking for a catch or, in this case, creating a catch for himself. It was easier that than truly believing that good people existed. He wondered if it would always hurt this much to see Dean like this.

“Dean, dear, we don’t expect any kind of repayment, we really don’t. I know you’re struggling to believe that now, but maybe, over time, you might come to see we mean it.”

Doubt still marring the freckled face, Dean shrugged and carried the bags upstairs.

“What did the doctor say?” Jane asked, once they were alone.

“The bruising is pretty bad on his leg and the scars on his back will never fade. There was also something we hadn’t spotted earlier. Dean’s got two white scars on his wrist that I first thought were from self-harm. Turns out, his father had handcuffed him to radiators without bothering to check that they were off.” Michael’s voice grew bitter as he thought of all the children out there who suffered a similar fate in silence as his son had.

“Anything else?” choked Jane, blinking back tears.

“We’re to give him painkillers if he’s in pain and to keep the wounds clean.”

“How come the sudden shopping trip?”

“When he was getting undressed, he was so embarrassed about the hole in his boxers. I just couldn’t sit there and watch him feel so ashamed of himself.”

His wife tilted her head and gave him a light smile. “I understand. And I’ve got to say, you guys did a pretty decent job.”

They sat on the sofa for a while, Jane’s head leaning against his chest, lost in their own thoughts about the child upstairs.

Finally, Jane spoke. “Once the school documents arrive from that Pyper bastard, we can talk to the headteacher at Moreton High about admitting Dean. I hope his grades aren’t too bad, though if he was thinking about college, I’m guessing they won’t be. Either way, as long as he’s willing to work hard, I’m sure we’ll muddle through.”

Michael nodded. Jane kissed his cheek and got up to leave.

“I’m going to go make lunch, call the boys down in half an hour.”

 

* * *

 

Jane heard the tinkle of broken glass and came running out of the kitchen.

Dean was stood in the centre of the living room, staring in horror at the shattered vase on the floor. At the sound of footsteps, Dean turned to face Jane, gaping.

Quickly, he knelt on the ground and pulled his shirt off over his head. Jane watched, dumbfounded, as the boy quivered, the patina of white scars and maroon welts on the arched back catching the pale light streaming in through the window.  

Finally finding her tongue again, Jane said, “Don’-don’t worry about the vase, Dean, accidents happen. Why did you take your shirt off?”

“Because I’ve done something wrong and I’m to take my punishment like a man.” Dean recited through clenched teeth, both obedience and frustration radiating through his words.

“Oh God no, I’m not going to punish you! I’m jus-” Jane stopped because Dean had started glaring at her with unbridled anger. When he realised she’d seen the glare, his expressed changed back to the usual don’t-give-a-damn look that Jane was growing used to.

“I know you’re going to punish me, I just broke your property. If you’re waiting for me to get the belt then you’re gonna have to help me out, I don’t know where the belt is.” His voice remained casual but his eyes narrowed.

Jane picked up the shirt and came to sit next to the lightly shaking boy, handing him his possession. “Your only punishment is that you have to clear up the mess and be a little more careful next time. There’ll be no hitting in this house.” Dean’s eyes remained narrow so Jane added, “You don’t trust me at all, do you?”

There was a long pause as Dean thought through his answer.

“What would you like to hear?” he finally asked with a resigned sigh.

“The truth.”

“Fine then, I don’t trust you. Not as far as I can throw you and I reckon I could probably throw you a couple of inches at least.”

Jane nodded, allowing herself a small, sad, smile at the scared boy’s pathetic attempt at sarcasm. Of course he wouldn’t trust her, it takes a while to get over the fact that everyone who was meant to look after you betrayed you in some way. She raised a hand to pat Dean’s shoulder when the boy flinched.

“You said to tell you the truth! C’mon! You can’t hit me for following orders!” Dean’s voice filled with panic but it was his eyes that scared Jane. Green eyes that were so resigned, so accepting, that she almost wanted to shake the boy until those moss-coloured orbs filled with the indignation that ought to have been there.

 _He thinks you’ll hit him and now_ you’re _thinking this? What kind of a monster are you?_

With that thought, she wrapped her arms around the skinny boy and pulled him into a tight hug. She knew it would probably aggravate the welts on his back but she found she didn’t care.

“I’m not going to hit you, not now, not ever. I’ve never hit Sam and trust me, he can be a real pain in the ass. I promise I’m not angry at you for the vase,” she whispered into his hair, “besides, I’d never really liked that vase anyway.”

Jane felt herself fill with warmth as Dean lifted his arms to awkwardly return her embrace.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean sat on his bed and admitted to himself that when he’d said to Mrs Winchester that he didn’t trust her at all, he’d been lying.

That was more what he  _wished_  was the case. It was easier when he didn’t trust people. He knew to be on guard and to get things right or face the consequences. While being hugged by Mrs Winchester, all he’d wanted to do was to return the hug properly _,_ like the kids at primary school (back when they weren’t too embarrassed to show it) hugged their mums.

No. That was a dangerous line of thought and there was no freaking way he was going to even consider going down that road. Mrs Jane Winchester wasn’t his mother and she never would be.

They must just want him for something. They  _must_. All Dean had to figure out was what for.

Mr Winchester had been horrified at the idea of having sex with him so that ruled out sexual deviant.

Mrs Winchester had let him have extra dinner and he suspected she would have let him have extra breakfast and lunch too if he’d have asked for it. This meant she either had no plans to starve him, or needed to fatten him up for something.

They both repeatedly promised he was a part of their family now and they didn’t seem to have taken him in for the housework either. In fact, he’d only been given mowing the lawn and washing the car as his chores and every attempt at doing more had been thwarted.

But the most confounding evidence of all was the fact neither had harmed, nor let him get harmed, at all during his short stay there. He’d broken a vase, used bad language and called their son a midget. He’d be washing away blood by now if he’d been at the Pyper house. Even when he’d been picking up the broken pieces of vase, Mrs Winchester had stopped him and made him get a dustpan and brush because the shards were making his hands bleed.

Maybe it really did just boil down to watching out for Sam. He could manage that. Happily.

But what if it wasn’t? What if this was just some cruel joke to see if Dean was still stupid enough to hope? What if, the moment he did something that went against their indiscernible rules, the hits came crashing down again?

_But they seem to really care. It’s not like the Pypers, there are no Pan Am smiles that vanish the moment the other adults leave the room. It’s different._

_And it’s kinda nice._

Dean wondered if it was possible to fake so much concern.

Just in case it was, to be on the safe side, Dean decided to be as unobtrusive possible. No point in endangering the biggest chance he’d had of normalcy in the past sixteen years.

 

* * *

 

_Smartarse._

Jane sighed and crossed the ‘because life is hard’ written next to the question ‘Why is 1 not classed as a prime number?’

There came the creak of the door and Jane looked up from her marking to see Sam’s head bob around the corner.

“Mum, I don’t get this question.”

Jane took this opportunity to get the brothers to interact a little more.

“Why don’t you ask Dean, I’m a little busy, honey, and I’m sure he’d be willing to help.”

It had been a fortnight since Dean had come into the house and he was slowly becoming one of the family. Sure, he still asked to do all the housework, and sure, he hadn’t taken seconds apart from his first night there, but he’d stopped kneeling at every tiny mistake and was more willing to give his true opinion on things rather than just trying to please.

Admittedly, Dean was still miles from being a normal sixteen year old, but that didn’t mean progress wasn’t being made.

Showers had thrown up a curve ball that Jane hadn’t expected. It turned out Dean didn’t think he was allowed hot water. He’d been having freezing cold showers for five days before Jane realised. Being in a hurry to get to work, she’d rushed into the shower once Dean had finished only to find the floor cold and no condensation at all. Stepping back out, she’d sat Dean down and asked if there was any reason he’d not used hot water.

_‘I’m not allowed to waste my generous caregiver’s money on items of personal comfort, ma’am.’_

His words had broken Jane’s heart. The words were once again mechanical, a product of brainwashing, but the grim resignation as he said what he saw as the truth was what got to Jane.

When she’d corrected his mistaken understanding of how things worked in her house by telling him he was definitely allowed to use hot water and anything else he did to try and save the Winchesters money was to cease immediately, the boy had nodded and swallowed nervously.

_“I guess I’m okay to tell you that I’ve been sleeping on the bed rather than the floor. That’s okay, right?”_

And then there had been the slow grin and the whispered ‘awesome’ as she’d replied with a cracked, teary, ‘yeah’. A grin that made him look like a five year old that had been given all their Christmas presents early, or maybe one that had been told he had no bedtime and didn’t have to eat his greens. No way did a smile like that belong on a sixteen year old’s face when the cause was the allowance of the use of a bed.

Jane found herself marching out of the room before the tears spilt.

Things had gone quite smoothly apart from that. The injuries were slowly fading and pain no longer hovered in Dean’s eyes whenever he leaned back while sitting down. He’d stopped clutching his chest too, though the limp was definitely still there. It seemed some underlying muscle damage had also occurred.

Sam’s school said that while the paper evidence of Dean’s abilities were impressive, they’d need to do some tests to confirm his place and stream him appropriately. Dean had spent the next five days studying for the tests he had on the following Monday.

The only worrying thing was the way Sam had been behaving. Sam seemed to be strangely hesitant to mix with Dean. At times his face seemed to show he had respect for the older boy, and yet he resisted any gentle nudges by Jane or Michael to bond with him. She’d need to talk to him about that.

“Hey, Sam, is anything wrong?”

The boy hesitated before sliding onto the bed and under the covers.

“What’s up, honey? You’ve not quite been yourself lately.”

Sam fiddled with the hem of blanket, avoiding looking into Jane’s eyes. When the silence grew uncomfortable, he spoke with a barely comprehensible rush.

“Mum, will you not really love me now because Dean’s here?”

“What on Earth gave you that idea?” said Jane, shuffling over on the bed to put an arm round her son.

The kid shrugged. “Well, you usually help me with my homework but now you’re sending me away. And my friends always used to say that when a little brother or sister comes into the house, parents quickly forget about you.”

“That’s all rubbish, okay? When you came into my life, I didn’t stop loving your Dad, did I?” The young boy shook his head. “There you go. I won’t stop loving you just because you have a brother. Love’s not like other things, Sam. You can give more to someone else without lessening how much you give to those you already care about.”

Jane watched with a light smile as Sam tried to suppress his relief, before adding, “That also means you can love Dean without stopping loving us, Sam.”

“That does make sense, I shall give it my consideration,” Sam tried to sound ten years older than he actually was, but the eagerness in his eyes to be using a long word gave away his age all too obviously.

“Are you okay to go ask Dean for his help then?”

“Yeah, I feel kind of bad now, I’ve sort of been ignoring him because of this.” Sam mumbled sheepishly.

“Well you know when you’ve done something wrong, you ought to apologise. I don’t need to teach you that, Sam Winchester.”

“Okay Mum,” he leaned over and hugged her quickly, “I’ll go say sorry and ask him about this question.”

Her younger son slid off the side of the bed and exited to try and make peace with her older.

 

* * *

 

Sam gingerly tapped on Dean’s door.

Dean opened immediately and Sam stepped into his brother’s abode. The room was pretty bare. A small wardrobe took up one corner and a chest of drawers that opened up to form a work desk sat in the other. There was nothing on the walls. The only objects that gave away the fact a living, breathing, human being lived there were the few books on his bookshelf. A week ago, the boys had been taken to the bookstore to buy some books to replace the ones Dean had not been allowed to bring. Sam thought it was pretty mean of Mr Pyper to not let him keep the books seen as Dean clearly loved reading. Then again, he’d probably had a reason, adults tended to do the right things.

Nevertheless, the look of delight on Dean’s face when Dad had let them buy whichever books they wanted had worried Sam a little. Those eyes filling with wonder made Sam want to take Dean book shopping every day, to make him happy like that all the time.

And that had scared him.

What if he started loving Dean and had to stop loving his parents?

Now he could see that he’d been wrong.

Wishing to make amends, he apologised abruptly, wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’ve not been very nice to you recently. I’ll be nicer to you, I swear.”

Dean just looked confused. “But you haven’t hurt me or anything?”

“Yeah, but I was mean. Ignoring people can be mean.” Dean still looked like Sam was speaking some alien language so he tried to explain himself further. “I kind of thought if I cared about you, I’d have to stop caring about my parents, and if they started loving you, they’d forget me,” he finished in a mumble. “That was kinda stupid, I’m sorry.”

“Well alright, enough sappy for one day,” said Dean, gruffly. “You’ve not been bad to me at all, but if you want to be friends, I’m all up for it, midget.”

Sam grinned and ambled over, plopping himself down on the older boy’s bed.

“There’s this maths question I don’t understand,” said Sam.

With that, he proceeded to explain the question. It was an algebra question, except there were both  _x_ s and  _y_ s in it and there were two equations. Two equations he had no clue what to do with.

“These are simultaneous equations. You just have to multiply both of them by numbers that make the  _x_ s or the  _y_ s the same number in both equations.” Dean’s normally rough voice took on a lighter tone, clearly enjoying what he was talking about. Either that or he just liked talking to Sam, though that wasn’t likely. Sam knew that most people in school saw him as a bit of a geek, and even if he didn’t like it, he’d come to accept that as his lot.

Sam squinted at the page, trying to work out which number he could multiply the equations by.

“I’ve confused you, haven’t I? I’m sorry, I’m not made for this whole teaching gig,” murmured Dean, staring down at his lap. “I’m crap at explaining things.”

“No, no, it’s just me. I can’t think of one number I can multiply them both by.”

“You multiply the two equations with different numbers,” Dean pulled the paper onto his lap and started writing. “See, like here. You times that top one by two and the bottom by three, so they both have 6 _x_ there, so you can then take one away from the other.” Dean continued, seeing his example to the end. While Sam was listening to the solution, he couldn’t help but also notice how animated Dean had become, how some of that look of hurt and caution had left his eyes.

Sam felt pretty bad for having put some of that caution there.

Even though people often said he was pretty mature for a twelve year old, he knew he’d been pretty childish about having an older sibling. Dean might not like the same kind of music as him and he might call him midget, but he wasn’t half bad at teaching maths.

_Next time I have a question I’m stuck on, I’m coming straight to him._


	9. Chapter 9

Dean sat, chewing the end of his pen, as the last couple of minutes rolled by to the end of the final exam he was sitting to gain entrance to Moreton High.

Apart from not knowing what ‘obfuscating’ meant, he felt it had gone alright. English wasn’t his best subject but he was relatively well-read for a child his age. When both the television and the laptop are banned for you, you find other ways to entertain yourself.

Hence it wasn’t the reading side he struggled with, it was the writing. He’d always struggled with getting his thoughts down onto paper, too unused to expressing himself.

_Hard to develop skills you don’t use very often._

Reading over his work, Dean was sure he’d never be able to come up with elegant sentences, or fluid prose, or charming wit. His only tools were sarcasm and commas.

The bell for the end of the time rang and with a sigh, Dean put his pen down. He walked to the front and handed the invigilator his paper, the limp having all but disappeared.

 

* * *

 

Jane scrambled to the door in the dark at the sound of the scream.

It had come from Dean’s room, filled with a crushing desperation to be heard. Jane ran into his room to see the young boy curled in on himself, silent tears crusading down his face.

“Please don’t make me… there are three men in there… It really hurts… I don’t want to… please don’t make me, please, please, please…” The mumbles faded into incoherence.

Jane leaned in further, about to wake Dean up, when Dean screamed again, his head right beside her ear. The sound chilled Jane to the bone. No child should ever sound so painfully broken.

“Dean, wake up, honey.” Jane nudged him gently, “You’re just dreaming, please wake up, honey.”

Dean woke up with a jump. The panic and fear didn’t leave his features as Jane had hoped.

“It’s okay, dear, I heard a scream so I came to see what was wrong, you’re okay now, don’t worry.” Jane felt her mouth ramble on in an attempt to say anything that would lessen the terror in those eyes.

Soundlessly, Dean got off the bed and knelt, reaching for his shirt.

“Uh, sorry ma’am,” he said from the ground, “I didn’t realise I was yelling.”

Jane pulled the thin boy back up onto the bed. “I’ve told you already we won’t punish you like that, Dean.”

“Quit with the bullshit and just hit me already!” The red-rimmed eyes widened as his own words reached his ears, “Sorry, but please just punish me. I promise not to scream and wake Sam.”

_Why the heck would he want to be hit?_

“I can-I can sleep downstairs in the kitchen? You might not be able to hear me from there.” he sniffled, wiping his face dry.

She felt her confusion grow along with the silence.

“I guess this is it then. I’d kinda hoped this might last, but that was stupid of me.” Dean got up from the floor and walked to the door. “Do you want me going back to the Pypers or just out of the house in general?”

“What the hell are you on about?” She hadn’t meant to sound so angry, but after a long day of trying to teach fractions to a bunch of snot-nosed kids, she really just needed a solid night’s sleep.

Dean looked at Jane with that same tired expression he’d given her when she’d asked why he was kneeling after breaking the vase.

“Look, I’m sorry I yelled, I don’t normally.” Seeing the confusion still plastered across Jane’s face, he continued, “I get it, it’s okay. You don’t want someone disturbing your sleep, I can understand. I just wish you’d just hit me a few times and give me another chance. I’ll not make another sound, I promise.”

Jane was about to speak when Dean continued, his voice so quiet she had to strain her ears to hear. “I really liked it here. You guys seemed to like me and even said it’d be okay for me to go to college. My bad, I guess, I was idiot enough to trust you.”

Finally finding her voice, Jane said, “You’re not going anywhere Dean. Why would we want you to leave? We’d like you to stay with us, really, unless you want to leave?”

“I want to leave? W-why the fuck would I want to leave? I’d do anything to stay here, I’d eat less and work around the house and stay outta the way if it meant I could stay here! It’s you who wanted me to leave!”

“When did I say that?”

“Well, you refused to hit me! Mrs Pyper always said, after I’d been screaming from a nightmare, that I had to pick between being beaten by sir and being sent back to my dad. I used to get on my knees and fucking  _beg_ her to have me beaten,” said Dean, his voice low with years of pent-up bitterness.

Jane felt rage boil up in her, her hands itching to punch the pillow on the bed. Instead, she counted to ten and slowly breathed. She needed to be strong for her son.

“This is a case of happens-in-the-Pyper-household-and-nowhere-else, dear. I won’t kick you out and I’m glad you don’t want to leave.” She didn’t add that it had killed her to hear this thin young man offering to eat less if it meant he could be kept in the house. “So forget what Muriel said, she’s a bitch.”

Dean snorted. “You got that one right.”

“So, do you want to talk about the nightmare?”

“Not really, it was just a dream from when I was with dad.”

Jane didn’t press any further and instead opted to pull Dean into a hug, he readily accepted.

“You really won’t get rid of me? No matter how many times I go wrong?” The boy sounded five. The tough-as-nails Dean Winchester (Jane didn’t know if he’d want to take on their surname but to her it just felt right) had frightened, yet hopeful, puppy eyes that could easily match Sam’s.

“We really won’t. We’ll just sit down and talk about what went wrong and how we can make amends, that’s all. Besides, a nightmare isn’t a crime, you can’t help it.”

Dean looked at her in disbelief so she continued. “How long have you been having them?”

“About twice a week for as long as I can remember,” he said, with a nonchalant shrug. “I normally smother my face in the pillow to keep quiet.”

Dean had been with their family for about three weeks now, he’d have had about six nightmares already and Jane hadn’t known about any of them. She had failed as a mother.

“I know you don’t trust me, but I’d like you to tell me if you have a nightmare, alright?”

Dean nodded and said the one thing that could make Jane feel like less of a failure.

“I do trust you. At least as far as I can throw you.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Dean put on the Moreton High School uniform for the first time. The jumper was dark brown (probably  _burnt umber_  or some shit like that) and came with a brown and silver tie that reminded him a little of Mr Pyper’s belt. Still, it was nice to have a brand new school uniform after wearing castoffs for the last two years.

_Nevertheless, say what you will about castoffs, at least their collars didn’t make you want to scratch your neck ‘til your spine showed._

Dean tugged and adjusted the collar once again.

_Stupid starch._

Moreton High had called up a couple of weeks ago, saying they’d be happy to admit Dean into their school. He’d apparently scored reasonably well in all areas, with maths and physics being highlighted as especially stellar. Mr Winchester had been really proud of him. He’d convinced Mrs Winchester to give up her battle to only feed the family healthy food for one day and so they had pizza to celebrate. Dean had tried to remain stoic about the praise being showered upon him but really, he’d felt this warm glow growing inside him, which manifested itself as a light blush that Dean associated with preteen schoolgirls, not himself.

Dean adjusted the collar and tie again. The face that started back from the mirror still looked thin, but far less gaunt than he had been. Peering at his chin, Dean saw a small amount of stubble. He’d need to find something to fashion a razor out of at some point, or maybe ask sir for one of his castoffs.

 “Sam! Dean! Get your butts down here or I’ll drive off to work without you guys!”

_Speak of the Devil…_

Dean scrambled down the stairs, closely followed by Sam. Sam picked up a lunch box from the dining room table and walked to the door. Dean stared at his shoe, knowing there’d be no lunch for him.

_Of course you weren’t idiot enough to believe you’d actually be treated like an equal, were you? Did the Pypers manage to teach you nothing?_

With a soft smile, he stood up and walked to the door, enjoying the feel of the solid walking boots beneath his feet.

“Dean, you forgot your lunch!” Mrs Winchester called from the kitchen.

“I get lunch?” he said, incredulously. Sure, they’d been feeding him while he was at home, but he didn’t expect them to give him anything to eat while at school. Dean was more than capable of living on one meal a day, it was the awkward stares you got as you sat with no food in the lunch hall while everyone else ate that Dean hated.

Mrs Winchester’s head popped out through the door, her face a mixture of concern and pity.

Dean didn’t like being pitied.

With a cough, he walked into the dining room. “Of course I get lunch, but the question is, does it include M&Ms?”

He grinned at her, glad to see some of the pity evaporate and a warm smile take its place.

“I’m afraid not. It’s chocolate spread sandwiches and fruit.”

“It’ll do.” Dean tried to make his voice sound casual as he packed the clear plastic box into his bag, trying not to heel click from the glee that was rising up in him.

This was exactly like his dream.

Not the nightmare, the other dream he often had.

The dream he’d been having ever since he started going to school and seeing how other kids lived. The stupid pipe dream that was filled with alien concepts like a proper bedroom and a real family.

As he walked out of the house and got into the Impala, a car he had also affectionately started calling ‘baby’ in his mind like Mrs Winchester did, he realised he was in deep shit. Because as much as he told himself that he could walk away from these people and not feel a thing, he couldn’t. It was too late. He really did care about this family with all his dirty, tainted soul.

 

* * *

 

Priya ran into the classroom in a huff.

“Sorry I’m late sir. I was coming from physics and Dr Baker wanted to speak to me.”

“Take a seat, Priya,” said Mr Watson as he turned back to the board.

Priya liked maths, she just wished it was taught by a more interesting teacher. Mr Watson’s voice was enough to send her to sleep.

“Oi, Priya, I saved you a seat.” Billy whispered as he gestured to the seat to his right, where he’d placed his folder. Most people usually stuck to the seats they’d picked at the beginning of the year, but Mohammed had recently started taking Priya’s seat to piss her off.

“Thanks, budge over,” said Priya as she shifted the folder and sat down. Quickly, she copied the one line she’d missed. Looking up at the board again, she noticed that the new boy was sat at the front, in the seat no one ever wanted to take because it was too near Mr-Boring-Voice.

He lesson droned on. Despite being in the top set, Priya still found maths lessons ridiculously easy. She’d read around the subject and had a clear aptitude for it. However, instead of earning her any prizes, her extra knowledge just meant Mr Watson religiously ignored her in all his lessons.

“So how many solutions do we get for this equation?” asked Mr Watson. As always, Priya put her hand up, knowing full well the teacher’s eyes would skirt right over her. She also knew no one else would put their hand up. No one else really understood what was going on in the equation; Mr Watson had never been a very adept teacher. Hence, it’d just be her with her hand up and the tension would mount as Mr Watson studiously ignored her until he was practically squirming from awkwardness. Priya loved to make him squirm.

_That’s what you get for pretending I don’t exist._

Except today was different.

There was a new kid today. She could see the almost gleeful look in the teacher’s eye, screaming ‘fair game’.

“Dean? What do you think?” asked Mr Watson, jumping on the Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card.

“There’d be two solutions.”

_Damn! Of course, the square root would result in two solutions at the end. Besides, he’d never ask how many solutions there would be if there were just going to be one. Idiot._

Nevertheless, she peered at the boy sat at the front, who had gone back to doodling in his book again. The kid looked pretty lonely and no one ever liked being the new kid. She looked at the empty seat next to her.

Maybe it’d be nice if he filled it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's interested, the OFC was originally inspired by Monica Geller from F.R.I.E.N.D.S and the Hindi film actress Kajol (particularly her character in Kuch Kuch Hota Hai). She kind of came about because the girls Dean ends up with tend to annoy me a tiny bit (barring maybe Cassie and, to some extent, Lisa). The Dean/OFC elements of the story will be light though, I assure you.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam sat down next to Dean with his packed lunch.

“Don’t you want to be sitting with your friends, Sam?” asked Dean. Sam wondered why he’d ask something like that when he obviously looked so pleased at having the company.

“They can survive without me for one lunch.”

“Thanks, midget.”

“No problem, Godzilla.”

Dean smiled and carried on munching through his sandwich.

“Your mum officially makes the best chocolate spread sandwich ever.” Dean’s comment came out broken as he tried to store as much of the sandwich as he could in his cheeks, making him look like a hamster. Dean’s habit of eating quickly and stuffing everything into his face still hadn’t gone. Sam found it both funny and kind of sad at the same time.

“Can I sit here?”

The girl asking was one from Dean’s year, Sam had seen her receiving awards in assembly before for her endeavours in maths and the sciences. She was short (or do they prefer the term ‘vertically challenged’?), with smooth, olive skin and thick, black, hair (some on her face too, Sam couldn’t help but notice) that stuck up everywhere. Her voice was slightly deep for a girl and her gait a little too close to stomping to be considered effeminate.

“Sure. I didn’t buy the table,” said Dean, as the girl sat opposite the brothers.

“Priya.”

“Dean.”

“Sam.”

He didn’t want to be left out.

“So, Dean, you joined recently, right?”

“First day here, yeah.” Dean leaned back on his seat and looked at Priya appraisingly. “Look, is there anything you want?” Dean asked, in a gruff voice that Sam had come to recognise as defensive.

“No,” she said, taken aback by the venom in his voice.

“Then why are you here?”

“I’m sorry for trying to be friendly,” she said bitterly, picking up her bag, “I’ll go find someone else to sit with.”

She strode off to a table populated with other kids from her year.

“Dean! What’s wrong with you?” Sam growled at his usually kind older brother.

“What?”

“She was just being nice to you and you were pretty mean to her, dude.”

“Wait, what? She genuinely just wanted to sit there?”

“Uhh, yeah. What else? She was just being nice.”

Dean paused, looking at Priya’s back. “Huh.”

_That’s all he has to say? Huh?_

He’d judged too quickly, Dean had more to say.

“Shit, man! I-I should go say sorry, I thought she’d been dared to talk to me.” His voice got quieter. “I’m not exactly used to people wanting to be friendly to me.”

Sam didn’t really know what to say to that, so he settled for just staring at his sandwich.

 

* * *

 

Dean had screwed up and he knew it.

As much as his father and the Pypers had told him otherwise, Dean didn’t really think he was generally all that rude. He sometimes didn’t watch his tongue, but he never wanted to hurt anyone on purpose.

He’d been an idiot. Priya had seemed nice enough in the two classes they’d shared but as always, he’d assumed the worst.

_Not exactly your fucking fault seen as it always has been the worst._

But then again, he’d promised himself a fresh start here. That meant not looking at everything from his hypervigilant viewpoint, but rather through a normal kid’s eyes.

_Not sure if you can even manage normal, whore._

Dean hated that side of his brain. The side that remained suckered to the past like a time-warping parasite. Maybe he really did need therapy like Mr Winchester kept hinting. He’d rebuffed all suggestions of the sort, but maybe he really was going crazy…

_No. Fuck that._

Never again was he going to some pansy-assed doctor who’d sit there with half the fucking alphabet after their name and nod over and over again, pretending to know what it felt like to want to kneel every time an adult came in the room. They’d smile and they’d force him to talk, telling him it was  _therapeutic_ or some crap like that, and then they’d shove meds down his throat, thinking it could fix whatever had broken inside.

The one time he’d been forced to go had been a complete waste of time. The social services required it as part of his rehabilitation. He’d simply refused to talk. It was none of their damn business what his dad did to him or how he got the broken arm. After two hours of excruciating silence, the lady had leaned back in her chair with a sigh and told him he was free to go.

So when sir had suggested booking an appointment, Dean had stuck to his guns and refused to go spilling his guts to some therapist who’d never known quite how desperate hunger, pain, and lack of alternatives can make someone. And sir was weak. He was no Mr Pyper, who’d have dragged him there by the ear if he wanted him to go. He’d seen the fire in Dean’s eyes and backed off, simply telling him the offer still stood, in case he wished to accept it.

Like he’d ever want to sit down and tell someone about the variety of ways in which people had had their way with him. Didn’t matter if he was going crazy or not, you didn’t  _talk_ about things to deal with them. Talking didn’t change the past or  _heal_  anything or whatever those headshrinkers felt it did. No, you buried the fear and hate and shame deep down and prayed it’d rot away to nothing.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Dean boldly walked up to Priya, an apology playing on his lips. Saying sorry wasn’t a new concept to him, this would just like all the other times the words had tumbled out without a moment’s thought. He had it all planned out, he’d say it and walk away before she or her friends started laughing at him.

Some said it was difficult to apologise because one’s pride got in the way. That certainly wouldn’t be a problem for him then.

“Hey, Priya,” he called.

Priya had been stood with a group of girls in the common room, different ones to the ones she’d been sat with the day before. She walked towards Dean, the confusion in her eyes slowly being replaced by steel.

“Is there anything you want?” said Priya, throwing his words back at him.

“I-I just wanted to say sorry for yesterday. I was a bag of dicks so I apologise.” Dean felt his game plan fall to pieces and he found himself having a staring contest with the floor.

“True, you were.” She shrugged and her tone softened, “But it takes guts to apologise so sure thing, apology accepted. Why were you so pissed anyway?”

No way was he going to tell her about his pathetic insecurities from the hellfire that had been his upbringing. He wasn’t one for chick flick moments.

_Or maybe a little bit of that pride is left?_

“Uhh, I was kinda hungry. I’m like the Hulk, except it’s a lack of food that sets me off,” He grinned awkwardly at his own joke.

Priya grinned back. “Fair enough, I’m sort of the same.”

The bell rang, signalling the start of registration.

“Well, I better go to class, sorry again about yesterday,” said Dean, picking up his bag.

“Don’t mention it, it’s forgotten,” said Priya, “and Dean, in maths, there’s usually a spare seat on my right, feel free to take it if you ever grow bored of Mr Watson’s company, as fascinating as the man may be.”

Dean nodded, smiling at Priya’s deadpanning.

He wondered if he might have somehow made a friend.

 

* * *

 

Michael knocked lightly on Dean’s door and then entered the airy, blue room. Dean was much better than Sam at keeping his room tidy, he never needed to be yelled at or bribed with fruit smoothies.

Michael decided not to dwell on why Dean was so good at cleaning.

“We’ve been invited to lunch at Jake’s house on Sunday, he’s a colleague at work and he’s asked the whole family to come along,” said Michael.

Dean looked up from the bed where he was reading the latest Top Gear magazine. “Sure thing, would you like anything doing for when you get back? Want me to make dinner?”

Michael had been a banker for twenty years now, he knew a thing or two about reading faces. Hence, he didn’t miss the way the young boy’s voice stayed casual as his eyes dropped down to stare at the page with false fascination.

“Wait, what?” He feigned stupidity.

“What what?” Dean looked up with confusion and the slightest hint of anger.

“What do you mean you’ll make dinner? How do you plan on doing that when you’re at the Masons?”

The confusion was quickly masked by a cheeky grin.

“Along with this handsome face, I was also born with the powers of teleportation.”

“I don’t doubt the ability to teleport, just the first bit of the sentence I’m not sure about,” Michael grinned back, “But seriously, I couldn’t dream of leaving just you behind, so you’d like to come with us on Saturday?”

“Yeah, sure-” Dean paused. Michael let the silence build up until Dean felt compelled to break it. “I’ve never been to anyone’s house before. I’ll probably make a rat’s arse of it,” he finished, miserably.

“I always do wonder how one can create a rat’s arse… and remember what we said about language? So unless you actually have the ability to create the buttocks of a de-winged pigeon, can we refrain from the use of ‘arse’?”

“Sure, sorry,” said Dean, “I fuc-screw up things like that all the time.”

“No worries, I don’t think even Jane’s ever got the hang of not swearing either. And as for how to behave at someone’s house, let’s put it this way, even I don’t know and I’ve been dragged to parties all my life. Just be yourself I guess, keep a little check on that tongue and ask us about anything you’re not sure of.”

“Yeah, I think I can manage that,” said Dean, with a nod.

“Good,” Michael headed to the door, “Oh and another little thing, Jake’s fine, but Lauren can occasionally be a little, erm,  _sophisticated_  at times,” Michael paused as the unspoken words sank in and Dean rolled his eyes, “so just bear with them and if there’s more than one set of cutlery, just start from the outside and work your way in. If it can work for Jack in Titanic, it can work for us, eh?”

“Isn’t Titanic meant to be that soppy girls’ film about that ship?”

“You mean to say you haven’t seen Titanic?” exclaimed Michael.

He regretted his words as he watched the kid shrink into himself as he shook his head.

_Of course he hasn’t. And I bet he blames himself for that too. I really am such an awful father._

“It’s a great film, we’ll watch it together some day!” Michael continued with forced cheeriness. “I’ll share a secret with you, Sam always cries near the end but refuses to admit it.”

“Okay then,” said Dean, with a laugh. He turned back to the magazine and soon lost himself in the pictures and descriptions of fast cars.

_It’s sometimes like he’s a little version of Jane._


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seen as this is the first chapter that starts mentioning year groups, I thought I'd better include my explanation of the English education system here.  
> You enter the main education system at the age of four, in reception (which is like pre-kindergarten in the US, or so Wikipedia tells me). Then you have year 1, which is kindergarten, and year 2, 3, 4 etc. This all consists of primary school (which is roughly equivalent to elementary school). 
> 
> At the age of eleven, you leave primary school and enter high school. There are very few middle schools and the vast majority of students go straight from primary to high school. You start that in year 7 (the equivalent of 6th grade).
> 
> High school is a little odd in that it technically lasts until year 11 (age 16), but a lot of schools have a sixth form college attached onto them (years 12 and 13, the equivalent of US grades 11 and 12) and so some people say they're still in high school when they're at a sixth form college. In this story, Moreton High works this way. 
> 
> The main official exams start to occur in year 10 and 11 and are called GCSEs (General Certificate of Secondary Education). They're best equated to OWLs in Harry Potter. Once you've done them, you can technically leave education and enter the world of work, but the vast majority of students stay on and complete their A levels (technically called the General Certificate of Education Advanced Level... because some people have too much time on their hands), which are once again best equated to NEWTs in Harry Potter. You start those when you're 16 and finish them when you're 18. After that, it's university.
> 
> Hence, at this point, Sam's in year 7, in his first year of high school. Dean, Priya, and Billy are all in year 11 and are working towards their GCSEs. Exams are sat in May and June (though I've restricted them to June just to make the timeline fit a little better), summer holidays are the end of July and all of August. Results are released mid-August. I think that's pretty much all that's included in this story.
> 
> If any of this doesn't make sense, please just drop me a comment. I may be a little blinkered in my explanation, having grown up with this education system.

Sam asked once more for the music to be changed.

“Why can’t we listen to something more normal for once? Why does it always have to be something stupid like Def Leppard?”

Mum winked in the rearview mirror at Dean, who covered his own smile with a hand, and turned the music up. “What was that? I can’t hear you.”

Sam, clearly the only sane person left in his family, leaned back with a huff.

They were driving to Mr Mason’s house for lunch. Sam didn’t get why Dad had so many old, boring, friends. What did they even talk about? Surely conversations about the weather could only be sustained for so long. Sam usually spent the time going round and asking people what they thought of peanut butter and banana sandwiches while keeping an eye out for the food.

Then it occurred to him, one of the benefits of having a bothersome older brother who laughed at his mum’s jokes was that you always had someone to talk to at boring people’s parties.

When they arrived, Sam was pleasantly surprised to see that there were some kids there. There was a girl called Jess (who seemed kind of sweet but Sam chose to ignore the weird part of his brain that suddenly seemed to find those aliens of the opposite sex kind of attractive), in year seven, and her brother, Billy, in year eleven.

Sam had been to the Mason household before. It was a large house where everything had its place and it had better stay there or he’d hear about it later from his parents. Nevertheless, Sam was inquisitive by nature and couldn’t refuse Jake’s offer to see their small library. It was cramped to the point Sam would have felt claustrophobic if he wasn’t fascinated by the range of titles surrounding him. Rows upon rows of books were stacked on all four walls, with the newer books nearer the door. Walking through the room was like walking back in time.

Running his eyes across, he found a cookery section that looked utterly boring. It was full of dull recipe books like ‘1001 things to do with mince’ that probably only appealed to the likes of Mrs Mason. That woman gave Sam the creeps, though he never knew why.

There was a light knock at the door and Jess slowly came in.

“Your brother and my brother are talking about cars or something so I thought I’d see if I could find you anywhere,” she said, meekly. She was wearing a white top with a floral design on it. Sam was surprised to find he thought it was really pretty.

_When on Earth did you start finding clothes pretty? And for God’s sake, stop staring at her…_

In an attempt to hide his stupid habit of gawking, he blurted out, “Do you watch Mythbusters? I do, they’re pretty cool. I mean, Adam’s really funny and Jamie knows so much, it’d be so awesome to meet them and maybe even try to bust a myth with them. But I question their methods seen as they don’t do enough repeats to really valid-, valid-” Sam paused his verbal diarrhoea for a second as he realised he couldn’t remember if the word he was searching for ended with an –ate or an –ify. “Enough repeats to make their claims valid. What do you think of peanut butter and banana sandwiches?” he finished awkwardly.

Jess looked just the slightest bit terrified. “Okay then, I think I’ll go now.”

With that, she quietly slipped out of the door, leaving Sam blushing and wondering why the heck he cared about what some  _girl_ thought of him.

Trying to think of anything but how nice it looked when Jess’s curls sparkled golden in the light, Sam wandered to the back of the room and pulled out a small, inconspicuous, hardback book that was overshadowed by much larger encyclopaedias on the world wars.

_A Short Guide to Ghosts and Other Miscellaneous Items of the Supernatural_

Sam didn’t believe in ghosts. He might have done when he was five and got scared when the wind howled but he knew now that everything could be explained by science and reason. Ghosts just did not exist.

_It’d be fun to read this just to laugh at it._

Sam knew he was just trying to justify what he was feeling. Justifying it was much easier than trying to understand why he could feel his fingers itching to lift the cover, why he felt it was  _important_ that he read this short guide to hocus pocus.

_It’ll be a laugh…_

With that thought hanging around his mind as awkwardly as a blatantly fake tan, Sam sat down with his back to a shelf and began to read.

Time flew by as he read about all sorts of mythical creatures, both corporeal (a word he’d definitely have to slip into conversation someday) and not. It had nearly been an hour since he’d picked up the book when the door opened again and Mr Mason peered in.

“Still in here? Did you find something good to read?” asked Mr Mason, as he entered and shut the door behind him.

Sam nodded and held up the book. “It seemed interesting. I’m not sure I believe any of it, but it’s kind of fun to read.”

“If you like it, I can give you quite a few more to read. I have a few boxes full of them down in the garage,” he said, opening the door again, “Hold on, I’ll bring them up for you.”

While waiting, Sam wondered if Mr Mason was a collector of some sort. Maybe he liked gathering them or something, why else would one have boxes full of books like this one?

_Because they’re important._

Sam laughed at himself. Like hell these ghost stories could be important. The monster under the bed just didn’t exist. Science said so.

Mr Mason entered the library butt first and set down the two cardboard boxes he’d been carrying.

“I got them off of a distant great-uncle I didn’t even know I had.  Apparently, he hadn’t made a will and I was the closest family that was still alive so I got these, pretty much his only possessions,” he gestured to the piles of dusty books and manuscripts. “I didn’t know what to do with them so I shoved them in the garage. I planned to throw them away, but if you want, feel free to take them.”

He could already hear his mum telling him he’d have to keep them tidily in his room. Nonetheless, Sam grinned. No way was he ever saying no to free books. “I’d love to.”

“Great, I’ll-” he paused as someone, presumably Mrs Mason, called his name. “Coming!” he yelled at the open door before making his way back out. “Have fun with those,” he said to Sam as he left.

Sam waited for the door to click shut before pushing back the corrugated cardboard flaps on the box nearest to him and pulling out the first book, a large, black one with spindly gold writing on the front. Maybe the Masons weren’t so boring after all.

 

* * *

 

Dean knew it had been a bad idea to come.

The house reminded him too much of his last abode. The same pastel coloured walls, the same pristine rooms, the same unwelcoming smell of bleach.

_You remember the sting of undiluted bleach on your hands? You remember the dread you felt every time you had to put your hands back in the bucket to pull the cleaning rag out, knowing it’d burn like a bitch but you had no fucking choice in the matter? I know you remember. I know you do. Now try to remember you could so easily be returned to that within the blink of an eye. Don’t you dare fucking forget that._

Try as he might, he couldn’t get the voice in his head to shut up. He knew why too. Try as he might, a little part of him couldn’t stop seeing himself as the outsider, the one the family could go on without. He needed them. It didn’t work the other way round.

He picked a spot on the couch and started to sit down when the door opened.

“You’re that brat the Pypers had taken in, aren’t you?” asked a scarily familiar voice.

Dean turned to see Mrs Mason stood ominously in the doorway, her steely glare fixed on him.

_Shit._

He was good at maths, he should have been able to put two and two together. Even if he hadn’t looked her in the face at any point, the clues had all still been there. Lauren Mason. The high, nasal voice. The clip-clop of stilettos.

_He’s been a good kid recently and there haven’t been any punishments for a couple of weeks. Hence, as there’s no visible bruising and he isn’t looking too gaunt, ma’am asks him to serve dinner for their guests._

_Dean thinks the guests do something to do with stone because before their arrival the word ‘mason’ kept being thrown around. He comes out of the kitchen and goes round the table, setting out the plates for dinner._

_“And Lauren? What would you like to drink?” he hears ma’am ask._

_“A glass of red for me, thanks. Who’s this?” asks the high pitched lady, watching him from the sofa._

_“Oh, just a kid we took in from the social services. His father couldn’t cope with him, I imagine.”_

_“How very good of you. Though I always say, you shouldn’t have kids if you can’t manage them.” The nasal lady continues while her husband looks decidedly awkward sat next to her. Dean doesn’t know why, but he feels like defending his father. This lady doesn’t know jack squat about his father, how dare she pass judgement?_

_But it’s not his place to question the guests so he goes back to setting out the cutlery._

_“Awfully quiet, isn’t he? Is he…” she makes some kind of gesture while Dean’s got his back to her and Kate and Max giggle, making Dean feel sure he’s better off having missed it._

_“Well, he has some violent tendencies and a sailor’s mouth, but we try to help him as best we can.” Sir lets out a long-suffering sigh. A little bit of Dean wants to punch him pretty fucking badly and prove him right._

_“And do check all your belongings when you leave. His fingers can get a little, er,_ itchy _from time to time,” ma’am adds._

_He can’t help but glace up from the table at that. He’s just in time to catch the lady’s scandalised gasp and the man’s look of pity._

_He doesn’t like to be pitied so he looks down with a scowl, but that doesn’t stop the man from saying, “I’m sure that won’t be a problem, will it-” he pauses and turns to sir, “er, what’s his name?”_

_“Dean.”_

_“Will it, Dean?” He says his name in this soft, caring kind of voice that Dean wants to record and play back to himself whenever he starts to forget who he is. People don’t say Dean’s name very often. It’s usually used pretty clinically, generally when being asked a question in class. But Dean feels that this is how a name is supposed to be said. As if you care about the person it represents._

_“No sir,” he whispers back._

_“Well, I should hope so! Imagine keeping a thief in your house! If it were me, he’d not even get a second chance…” she keeps talking in that same, annoyingly high, frequency band that Dean’s trying to tune out._

_Dean slides back into kitchen and wills himself to not feel a thing._

“Yes ma’am,” said Dean, sinking onto the floor and staring at the red standby light on the plasma screen television as if it’s the most fascinating this in the world.

“Trying to ruin the Winchesters’ lives now, are you?” she sneered.

Dean shook his head. “No ma’am.”

Mrs Mason barely seemed to hear. “I don’t know how a self-respecting family like the Winchesters can let someone like you in, I really don’t.”

_That makes two of us, then._

“Have you made plans to steal anything from them yet?” She spat out the question, as if disgusted to find herself speaking to filth like him.

Dean continued to stare at the borders of the television-  _Why does that insult always cut so badly? -_ The left side hadn’t been cleaned properly, there were fingerprints on it, ruining the shiny veneer-  _It’s because you know it’s true –_ and there was a spot near the back that had been missed, an ugly patch of grey amongst the gleaming black-  _The Winchesters will work it out too, soon._

Yeah, okay, fine. He’d stolen before. Normally just small things. A slice of bread, some sheets of lined paper, the odd pen. But he’d honestly had no plans to ever steal from the Winchesters. They’d been more than fair to him.

He turned to face those grey eyes again and answered coldly, “One does not bite the hand that feeds one.”

“True,” Mrs Mason seemed almost disappointed by the answer, “But that’s nothing to stop you from stealing from us, is it?”

Dean could see what was coming next and he utterly dreaded it.

“Turn out your pockets.”

He shut his eyes to stop the damn tears leaking out. Why couldn’t people give him one fucking chance before they decided he was scum that didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as them?

“Dean hasn’t stolen anything!”

His hands paused in the act of tugging at the inside of his pockets. Billy strode into the room and glared at Mrs Mason as he jerked Dean onto his feet and sat him down on the sofa.

Clearly as surprised at the interruption as Dean, Mrs Mason straightened her dress and walked to the door. “Alright, well, keep your pilfering hands off my property. Do I make myself clear?” She gave him one last glare and then exited.

Dean nodded, he had no wish to touch the bitch’s Royal Doulton anyway. For now he was struggling to come to terms with the fact someone who he thought hated him had actually helped him.

It didn’t make sense.

Billy had been blanking him ever since he moved to sit next to him and Priya in maths. Even today, Billy hadn’t spoken a word since they’d arrived. Dean didn’t mind, or so he told himself. Being ignored was better than being actively hated. Besides, it wasn’t like there weren’t a multitude of reasons to avoid Dean.

Billy stopped the silence from stretching too long.

“So what was that about?” he asked, staring at the floor, clearly finding the situation just as awkward.

No point lying. The kid already knew what that had been about. “She thought I’d stolen something.”

“And had you?” Billy asked quietly.

“Not today, no,” replied Dean.

“So that means you’ve stolen before?” Billy blurted out the question and then seemed to regret it. Dean held back a chuckle, he was the one admitting to his criminal past and Billy was the one embarrassed.

“I guess so, yeah. I’ve taken things like bit of food, maybe the odd sheet of paper if Kate wanted her homework done but wasn’t willing to lend me the resources. Stuff like that.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” he mumbled weakly. Then, he asked, “Who’s Kate?”

“No one.”

Billy nodded and leaned back, “how come you’re with the Winchesters?”

“Well, I’m sort of adopted by them now. I think so, anyway.”

“I thought it might be something like that. We’ve known the Masons for a while and they’ve spoken of the Winchesters, but they only ever mentioned Sam.”

“I only moved in with them about a month ago.”

Billy stopped staring at the mantelpiece, looked Dean in the eye and said the last things Dean expected to hear.

“Look, I’m sorry about ignoring you so much in school. I mean, it was a dick move. You’re new here and everything and I was just there, trying to pretend you don’t exist.” He paused and stared at the carpet before continuing quietly, “It felt weird to think of there being someone else hanging out with me and Priya.”

Dean’s brain tried to keep up with the words coming from Billy’s mouth. It made no sense, he was apologising for just ignoring him? Hell, he hadn’t even done anything wrong!

“Priya told me to at least give you a chance, she thinks you’re kind of nice to have around. I didn’t want to hear it. I mean, her and I have been friends for years now and I couldn’t see why we’d need anyone else. But I get what she meant now, you seem like an alright guy.”

“Uh, thanks, I guess.”

“So are we cool? Will I ever get to see that Impala you guys have?”

Grinning at the mention of their baby, Dean replied, “Yeah, we’re cool. And she’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“They don’t do them like her anymore, that’s for sure. I mean, the Veyron’s pretty awesome in itself, but it doesn’t compare to the classics.”

“Oh definitely, a Mustang will always beat a Ferrari Maranello.”

Billy’s sister, Jess, wandered in and plopped down on the couch with the lack of sophistication that made children so fun to be around.

“What are you guys talking about?”

“Cars. Wanna join in?” replied Billy.

Jess promptly pulled herself off the couch and walked out of the room.

“Works every time” Billy grinned.


	12. Chapter 12

On Monday, Priya was pleasantly surprised to walk into maths to find Billy and Dean already in the seats on either side of hers, talking animatedly over the gap.

"You guys still trying to pick which one's the best Tellytubby?" she called by way of greeting.

Billy shuffled his folder and books over to make room on her desk. Priya needed a lot of room. She liked to spread her sheets around until the table could no longer be seen.

"We were just discussing films. He's never seen Silence of the Lambs! Can you imagine that?"

"That's practically sacrilege! Where have you been living?"

Dean stiffened and looked down at his textbook like his life depended on him deducing the value of each theta. "I dunno," he said, gruffly, "I've just been busy."

"I didn't mean it like that. I just meant you'd really like Silence of the Lambs. Well, I reckon so anyway, it's a great film."

"No, I get what you mean," Dean mumbled.

Mohammed turned round to ask what Priya had gotten in her last maths test.

"I dropped a couple of marks, you?"

"I got full marks" said Mohammed, with a self-satisfied smirk.

"And let me guess, you didn't revise at all?"

"Yep, I never revise." The grin got wider. Priya just smiled until he turned back round to his desk.

"Bullshit," she muttered.

Billy and Dean contained their laughter. Everyone found it ridiculous that Mohammed clearly worked hard and put in effort to get the grades and results he did and yet seemed ashamed to admit it. He somehow thought there was credit in pretending to be someone who didn't work at all and still got great results. He also somehow thought no one else would piece things together.

The rest of the lesson went by slowly. Mr Watson droned on, as was habitual for him. Priya continued to ignore most of what he said, as was habitual for her. She started copying out the questions, finding herself wondering again about the enigma that was sat next to her.

Dean seemed like a really decent guy, if a little quiet and lacking in knowledge on pop culture. Over the last week, he'd started quoting more and more of the Simpsons. It seemed to be just about the only reference he could make. Then there was the fact he jumped a little whenever his name was called in class. She guessed he just didn't like the pressure. But that didn't explain why his eyes filled with fear every time it happened.

_He's got nothing to be scared of. He's pretty darn awesome at maths._

Feeling just as confused as she was before, she decided to focus on finding the roots of the polynomials in front of her. Besides, Dean seemed to trust her, she could ask him about these things later.

_Why are you even thinking about him so much?_

Not wanting to think about that question, she quietly got on with her work while the boys talked over her head about which model of Mercedes was worth giving your right arm for.

The bell went for the next class and Priya and Billy sauntered to English while Dean marched off to a Spanish lesson.

_He even walks like he's terrified of being late and yet too scared of breaking the rules and running._

_Weird._

Billy was a welcome interruption to her thoughts.

"I was wrong about Dean."

"And what did it take for you to figure that out, genius?"

"Something weird happened at the weekend. We were at the Masons for a birthday party and at one point I went to the toilet."

Priya couldn't resist a joke about Billy's infamously minuscule bladder.

"I'm being serious here. I was coming back and I heard Mrs Mason accusing Dean of being a thief and stealing things. I sort of lost my rag. I walked in and yelled that he hadn't stolen anything. She left, we got talking and man, Priya, I don't know what to think of what he said."

"What did he say?" whispered Priya, her face sombre.

"He said he had stolen before." Seeing the look of surprise blooming on Priya's face, he quickly continued. "But this is the weird bit. He's stolen things like bits of food and a sheet of paper. And even those only if he was desperate, from the sounds of it."

"I-I don't know what to make of that either."

"The whole party was incredibly awkward. Mrs Mason didn't say anything again but she refused to pass any food to Dean. He had to get it all through others. Though, now I think about it, I don't think he ever asked for any food at all. He just took some if anyone else offered him any. He just kind of sat there, trying to avoid looking at Lauren. I think his parents noticed, but they never said anything-"

Billy glanced down at his watch.

"Shit, we better run to English, Miss Harris will be pissed." They hitched up their backpack and broke into a run, both mentally planning to resume the conversation but never getting round to it.

* * *

"Dad! You used white thread instead of dark blue!"

Jane heard the frustrated yell from the garage, where she was cleaning the baby's rims with Dean.

Sam stomped down the stairs and into the garage, holding the incriminating shirt up in front of her.

"The rest of the buttons have dark blue thread, this one just looks ridiculous!"

Michael followed Sam in. "What does it matter if it's white? You can barely see it."

"The buttons are practically black! Of course they can be seen! I'll look like an idiot."

Michael sighed in frustration. Jane could appreciate why. The button was sewed on quite neatly, though the white was admittedly a stark contrast against the navy blue of the mathlete uniform.

"Alright Adrian Monk, I'll sew it on again in dark blue. Will that do?" Dean reached forward to take the shirt.

"It's kind of you to offer, Dean, but if there had been any blue thread, I'd have done it," said Michael.

"Sam and I could go get some?" Jane hated the way Dean would only ever ask for something if he felt it'd be useful to them or if he was really desperate. "And Sam, mind watching so you can do it yourself next time?" That was better. At least he was willing to let Sam take some responsibility, even if it was still too polite for brotherly banter.

Sam gave a sulky nod.

"Okay boys, pick up some milk while you're out, will you?" Jane opened the garage door and let them out. She tried to stop staring as she watched her sons put on their coats, her eldest gripping it like it might be taken away any second. He still had nightmares, still begged for mercy in his sleep, still apologised for any inconvenience he might have caused.

A tiny bit of Jane wondered if he'd ever be okay.

The Pypers had been bastards.

Dean's father had been a bastard.

All her eldest son had known was bastards and here she was, expecting him to trust again within the space of six weeks.

"Race you to the shop, midget," said Dean.

The next few moments seared themselves to her mind.

Sam barrelled through the door just as Dean was throwing on his leather jacket. The elder brother sprinted to catch up with the younger. The younger glanced behind, laughter in his eyes, and ran faster, out onto the road.

The screech of brakes, as loud as a peal of thunder, as Jane stood, frozen.

Sam turned to see what he had done, to see the owner of the Land Rover making a futile attempt to brake. Too late.

"Sammy!"

A body hit Sam's and he was flung onto the pavement on the other side.

Her elder son flopped onto the bonnet of the car before falling in front of it as it finally came to a halt.

A cry from the other side of the pavement. "Dean!"

* * *

The room took a second to right itself as Dean awoke to the sight of a hospital ceiling.

"Dean? Are you awake?"

On the white paint walls of the ward, the scene replayed itself. Dean suggesting an idiotic race to Sam. Sam laughing, running ahead. The car's pathetic attempts to slow down. Dean doing the only thing he could to save his benefactors' son.

No.

It was more than that.

The thought of Sam's smile being obliterated forever was enough to turn Sam, son of Mr and Mrs Winchester, into Sammy, pain in the ass little brother.

"Is Sammy alright?"

"I'm here Dean, I'm fine." Sam's concerned face moved into his eye line. "I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry."

"The heck you sorry for?" mumbled Dean. Sam just continued to look at him, tears brimming in his eyes.

The light bulb finally flicked on in his drug-addled mind.

This was the end. This wasn't his pipe dream. It never had been. Happy endings didn't happen to Dean, neither metaphorically, nor euphemistically. He'd had it easy here, his one job being to look out for Sam, and he'd done what he always did. He'd failed.

They wanted him out. After all, no one keeps a broken machine.

"It's alright, I understand. Can I take any of the books with me?" he asked tentatively, wondering how far he could push his luck.

"Sorry?"

Dean turned to see Mr Winchester sat next to his bed, looking perplexed.

"That was going too far, wasn't it?" Dean mustered a bad attempt at a cheeky grin.

"I'm afraid I don't get what you're on about," said sir.

"Nah, I get it, I got Sam into danger, you want me out." Once again, he tried to smile as he felt his stupid little hopes of a family that actually wanted him shatter. "I mean, I get why. I'm a pain to have around. I eat too much and I barely do any work. But what if I didn't mess up this time? What if I made sure I watched out for Sammy?" His voice caught in his throat as the tears misting his eyes attempted to be spilt. "You'd not even notice I'm here," he choked.

Mr Winchester looked like he'd been sucker punched in the gut. "When did we say anything like that?"

"Sam did, just now! He-he said he was sorry because I had to leave and-"

"I said sorry because you've got a broken leg because of me, Dean!" Sam cried.

Dean stared at Sam, struggling to comprehend. "What?" he asked, dumbly.

"I also wanted to say thank you. I'd have been roadkill if it wasn't for you."

"What the fu-" A glance from Mr Winchester changed his choice of words, "-udge are you on about? It was because of me and my verbal runs that you ran out onto the road in the first place!"

"I'm old enough to know to not do that, Dean. I'm twelve, I know better than to run onto roads."

"Oh because that's practically old-lady-in-Titanic-ancient!" Dean rolled his eyes, before fixing them on Mr Winchester. "You really aren't going to kick me out?"

A slight shake of the head from sir was enough to let Dean be engulfed by his pipe dream once again. The feeling of elation overtook the dull pain of his right leg and a genuine smile crept across his face.

Sam bounced onto the foot of Dean's bed. "If anyone ever tries to get you to leave, I'll yell at them until they change their mind."

Both the feeling of joy and the smile grew deeper. "You yell with those midget lungs, Sammy."

"Aww Dean! Don't call me that! It sounds babyish," sulked Sam.

The smile vanished. "Of course, if you don't want that, Sam."

Sam glanced up at Dean, surprised by the change in tone.

"I guess you could call me it, I don't really mind it all that much." Sam inspected his nails as he'd seen people do when they wanted to pretend they didn't care. If Dean were a girl, he'd even have admitted it was cute.

Dean rolled over and closed his eyes, fighting the growing grin.

_So this is what it's really like to have a family._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback would be hugely appreciated. I'd really like to hear your views on the characters, the writing, and the plot.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: this chapter contains a discussion of hirsutism. 
> 
> While I appreciate some people are uncomfortable with this topic, this is the very reason I decided to include it in this story. It's a reality for 5 to 15% of women and it's saddening the way it's so heavily sidelined because everyone sees it as the woman's responsibility to remove excessive hair growth in order to be fit for today's society. Jokes, taunts and mild bullying are often directed towards girls with this condition and I wanted to explore what one goes through when trying to both fit into society while still maintaining one's individuality and identity.

It had been a week since Dean had broken his leg and he was currently using his behind to open the door to the maths classroom. 

Once inside, he leant against his desk as he clumsily took out the necessary books.

“Oh give it here!” Priya huffed and reached for the bag with one hand while pulling out his chair with the other. “How’s the leg healing?”

“Fine, though I’ve been fed so much chicken soup I don’t think I can ever look at the stuff again.” Dean said with a smile, “Sam insisted on making it yesterday. I should get a medal for keeping it down.”

“I guess you won’t be letting him near the kitchen again?” Priya grinned back.

“Like that little shit listens to anything I ever say.” said Dean fondly.

They continued to work their way through a sheet on the equations of circles. As he let his pen glide over the paper, Dean thought over the last week. The last thing he wanted to do was hope. He had just spent a week with a broken leg, being fed chicken soup and pie. It was all so alien, such a far cry from being told he was a waste of effort and space, that it had quickly become his greatest fear that it would all come crashing down about his ears, as life tended to.

The last thing he wanted to do was hope. He feared it might already be too late.

Priya marked the end of the lesson with a loud sigh. “Thank fuck that’s over. If he’d spoken for even a second longer, I’d either have fallen asleep or committed praecepticide.”

“Sounds like the unpopular cousin of ‘pesticide’” Billy said with a shrug, as they walked to the common room.

“It’s Latin for killing teachers,” she paused as Dean looked at her incredulously, “c’mon! I have to put that Latin GCSE to use somewhere!”

“Sure thing, A* girl,” Dean spoke absentmindedly, looking for somewhere to sit seen as their usual table was taken. His eyes settled on some free seats in the centre of the room and he headed towards it.

Around the table were Alex, Remy and Beth. The boys were busy in a discussion about the various uses of radiation, each suggestion being more deadly than the last, while Beth was busy reading the latest text for her English class. She was beautiful, in a prim, proper, sort of way. Her long, blonde hair surrounded a face perfectly accentuated by make-up.

“Hello shortie, how’s the weather down there?” Remy addressed Priya as he shuffled his bag to make room for Dean’s crutches.

“Warm, thanks. I hope you get frostbite up there,” replied Priya. “I haven’t seen you around in ages, Mrs Griffiths still giving you hell?”

“Who doesn’t love darling Mrs Griffiths, with her nasal voice and claws for nails?”

Priya laughed. “So like you on a good day then?”

“Not fair! Just because you have a deep voice!”

Priya sighed, “And yet you don’t listen to me. Besides, how can you say I have a deep voice when we have Morgan Freeman over here?” she gestured towards Dean.

Feeling a little put on the spot, Dean said, “I like to think it’s because of my perky nipples.”

Beth let out a quiet giggle from behind her copy of Frankenstein. Dean felt a light blush rise.

“However, the question is, what’s the cause of Priya’s voice then? It’s not like she can even use Dean’s excuse.” Beth looked over her book to wink at Dean.

Priya’s smile faltered. “I reckon I was blessed with a voice with gravitas so I can drill some sense into these numbskulls,” she gave both Billy and Dean a light shove.

“Along with the need to shave?”

Priya’s face froze and she gathered her folders. Without looking back, she weaved her way out of the busy common room, head tucked between her shoulders.

Dean stared at Beth. Everything about her had stopped being attractive. Now she reminded him of Kate. The same straitlaced appearance, the same caustic personality.

At least Priya wasn’t like that.

You got what you saw, with Priya. Sure, she wasn’t anywhere near as cute as Beth. She  _did_ have facial hair, and quite a lot of it, now he came to think about it. She was crude and she swore and she could possibly out-eat Dean in a burger contest. But that was her all over. She never pretended to be anyone she wasn’t.

Dean suddenly felt the urge to defend his best friend.

“I don’t know what you have against her or what game you’re playing, but that was really fucking bitchy.”

Secretly enjoying the fact Beth now looked like she’d been slapped with a dead fish, Dean grabbed his crutches and pulled himself up.

“Where will she have gone?” he asked Billy.

“She’ll be on the school playing fields, but don’t go to her now. She’s never appreciated me trying to help her at such times.”

“You go out of the left wing entrance to get to them, don’t you?”

Billy nodded and started to reiterate what he’d said but it was too late, Dean was already walking to the door and opening it with his behind.

 

* * *

 

Dean dropped his crutches on the grass and slowly lowered himself down next to Priya.

She sat, hugging her knees, face buried. The only sounds to puncture the silence were the rustle of a cat walking through the bushes at the edge of the hill and her muffled sobs.

“What Beth said,” Dean was unsure of how to phrase what he meant to say, how to get across that he knew what it was like to be singled out for a flaw you couldn’t control. “She was wrong,” he finished lamely.

Rubbing her eyes vigorously, Priya shot Dean a glare. “She was wrong? Because to me, it didn’t seem like she was mistaken at any point. It’s the truth, that’s why it hurts.”

Fresh tears formed in her eyes and she scraped them away with the back of her hand.

“I’m being an idiot,” she laughed weakly, “I let myself forget that the first thing people see in me is the keratin that refuses to stop spouting out of my skin.”

“It wasn’t the first thing I spotted about you.”

“Look, I get you’re trying to be a good friend and all, but just- just leave me alone?”

Dean stayed where he was, his eyes following the cat around the edge of the field as Priya stifled her sobs and wiped away the tears.

“You really don’t have to waste your free time here, you know. You’ll never convince me that ‘it’s not noticeable’ or ‘I look pretty anyway’ so let’s just save you some time and leave that out.”

“I don’t mean to convince you of anything,” Dean spoke softly, surprised at how much those wet, miserable eyes were bothering him, “I guess I just wanted to say that Beth was out of line. Now, I don’t know about anyone else, but for me, the fact you came to sit with and talk to an anti-social stranger made it difficult for me to notice anything else.” Dean hadn’t realised how quiet his voice had gotten towards the end and Priya had started speaking again.

“I don’t even care about Beth! I choose to look the way I do! So why does it bother me, Dean? Why does it still hurt so much when people point it out?” She buried her face in her arms again.

Dean gave two awkward pats on her back. She looked up, her expression changing from anger to amusement as her lips quirked with the hint of a smile.

“What? I’m no good at all this feelings stuff,” said Dean.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to be.” She looked out to the trees where a squirrel scampered up a large oak.

“You’re a strong person, Priya. You’ve got a thick skin, people figure it’s impenetrable.”

“And that makes it okay, does it? To say things they know can hurt?”

“No, no it doesn’t-”

“I  _chose_ this. I’ve had comments about my appearance ever since I hit puberty. I could have easily chosen to get rid of any excess hair and wear make-up every day. But no, I decided to stick to what I’m comfortable in and not change for people I don’t give a damn about. So why does it bother me so fucking much when people point it out? I mean, I practically  _chose_ to be bullied on this.”

“Just because you decided not to change doesn’t give them free reign to say whatever they like.”

Priya ripped a handful of grass our and gave an exasperated sigh. “Why can’t people just leave me alone?”

“Because people can’t stand knowing someone smarter and friendlier than them and not trying to bring them down to their level,” said Dean, thinking of report card days, the hours spent leaning his forehead against the wall as Max and Kate took turns to wield the belt.

Priya bit her lip and shook her head. “It’s not that simple… but I think that’s enough of a Care Bear moment for today,” she smiled lightly and picked up their bags. “Do I look like I’ve been crying?”

“A bit. But it’s fine, you just go in there, flip her off from beneath the table and then just forget her altogether, alright?”

Dean was slowly manoeuvring himself into a standing position when Priya grabbed his arm and lifted him up with surprising strength.

“Dean,” Priya watched the cat slink off through a hole in the school railings, “thanks. You’re better at this feelings stuff than you give yourself credit for.”

“Wow Priya,” Dean grinned. “Was that a compliment?”

“Shut up.”

 

* * *

 

Dean was putting on his jacket when Sam decided to make his move.

“Hey, wait up, I think I might come with you.”

“Are you sure? I’m just going to Billy’s house, not the Batcave.”

Sam could understand the suspicion in Dean’s voice. He’d gotten a laptop for his twelfth birthday and that had kept him occupied constantly ever since. Suddenly wanting to go with Dean to a revision session instead of trying to complete some more quizzes on Sporcle didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

It didn’t make sense to Sam either.

He wasn’t sure why he wanted to go, he tried to tell himself it was just because he wanted to hang out with his brother. Siblings do that, right?

But it was more than that. Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore the fact that a pretty face with golden hair that shone in the sun kept popping into his head.

_Jess is just a friend. Just a friend. I mean, girls can be alright sometimes, they can be fun to hang around with. It’s alright if I want to hang out with my friend. After all, she is my friend. Just a friend._

“I’d just like to get out of the house for a bit and everything… besides, doesn’t Billy have a brother or sister or something?” Sam tried to ignore his father’s barely concealed laugh.

“I’m surprised you can’t even remember the gender of this sibling, Sammy, it’s not like you.” Dean was wearing his shit-eating grin.

“Yeah, well, I’ve remembered now, it was a ‘her’, so there.” Sam stuck out his tongue as he felt his cheeks grow warm.

“Dean’s going over there to work, you might get bored.” Sam’s dad had a way of always saying the sensible things he didn’t want to hear. Ranging from ‘lights off now, you’ve got an early start tomorrow’ to ‘no, you cannot get  _Goode on Commercial Law_ for your tenth birthday, let’s start somewhere a little simpler and lay the foundations first’, he was really annoying in that what he said often made sense.

Sam started up the stairs when Dean spoke, a smile still planted firmly on his face. “I’ve got no problem taking Sam with me, sir,” the grin faltered, “I’ll look after him. I’ll not fail you this time.”

Sam didn’t want to go anymore.

Sam didn’t want to go anywhere until Dean stopped beating himself up about the accident.

Dad sighed and came to the base of the stairs. “Alright Sam, you can come along, but I don’t want you disturbing the boys.”

The thought of seeing Jess again had him jumping to get his coat.

_I’ll see if I can talk without a verbal spasm this time._

_Why do I care? She’s just a friend._

_Her smile’s kind of sweet._

Just  _a friend._

He was pulled out of his mental turmoil by the sight of Dean swinging swiftly on his crutches towards the Impala.

“Shotgun!” Sam yelled and broke into a run towards the front seat.

Sam didn’t miss the way Dean slowed down so he could catch up.

“Not fair! You won that!” Sam leaned against the door, panting.

“You’ve got your hand on the door. You won fair and square, Sammy.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“How about Samantha?” Dean winked.

“Right, for that, I’m taking the front seat.”

Sam slid in just as his father was starting the engine. He turned to look as he was reversing the car and caught Dean’s eye.

“You’ve never failed me, Dean. I’m proud of you.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Non-graphic description of rape. Skip the part in italics if you want to avoid that.

Sam urged himself for the umpteenth time to ask to leave the room and go see Jess. But every time he came to open his mouth fireworks went off in his stomach and he found his jaw clamping shut again.

“So we have Heathcliff being taken in by Mr Earnshaw. We get hints about his dark side, lines like ‘as if it came from the devil’ imply that he doesn’t fit into his new family, he’s going to be the downfall of the house. He’s described to be ‘dark’ and that links in with the idea of black and white, good and evil. It’s like the rest of the family is pure and untainted, whereas he’s the black spot that can never be clean.”

While Dean had been working hard to take notes previously, Sam noticed he’d started gazing off into the distance, pen unmoving in his hand.

“Dean, are you still with me?” Billy shook his shoulder.

“Uh, yeah, yeah, evil in the family, going to bring down their happy little existence,” he started scribbling again.

“I baked some cookies, anyone want some?” Jess walked in, wearing a yellow dress with floral patterns again.

_Why am I even thinking about what she’s wearing?_

_What the heck is wrong with me?_

_(Though it does really suit her)_

_(Goes really well with her hair)_

_Seriously… what on Earth is wrong with me?_

“I-I’ll have one,” Sam felt his cheeks flush crimson for the second time that day.

He didn’t miss Dean’s smothered snort.

He took a cookie and bit down. It was slightly burnt on the outside but the excess of chocolate inside more than made up for it.

“It’s, it’s really good,” he felt a huge (quite possibly goofy) grin spread across his face. God, he was an embarrassment.

“Thank you,” she smiled and turned to the boys lying sprawled across the floor, surrounded by papers and anthologies, “Either of you want one?”

“Not if you made it.”

“Wasn’t offering it to you anyway.”

“You said ‘either’, that includes me.”

“Shut up.”

“Yeah, shut it Billy, I’ll take one, Jess,” Dean took a large bite, “Sammy was right, they really are good!” He sent a wink Sam’s way.

Sam was so busy looking anywhere but at Jess, he forgot to be annoyed.

Having returned the plate to the kitchen, Jess came over to the sofa as the older boys continued with their character analyses.

“I dunno, if you really like listening to my brother drone on, go for it. But if you’re a bit bored, we could go for a walk, it’s a nice day.”

Sam jumped up with relief. “Let me just get my jacket.”

Jess’s mother had restricted them to the hill outside their house (because everyone knows axe murderers live just over that hill) and they had to get back in an hour. It wasn’t as long or as far as Sam would have liked but anything was better than listening to any more about Heathcliff and Cathy’s undying love for each other.

“So how come your brother’s having to copy up all the notes for Wuthering Heights? They covered it all in school, didn’t they?” asked Jess, her dress clinging to her knees.

_Just a friend._

“He went to a different school until recently. I think they did ‘Of Mice and Men’ there instead. Dean keeps saying “I like machines” while patting the Impala.”

“Impressive that you managed to deduce the book from one quote.”

“Nah, I asked Mum. Nothing to do with my little grey cells,” Sam spoke absentmindedly as he tried to avoid some horse manure.

It was only when he looked up again that he saw the wide eyes and even wider grin on her face. “Poirot?”

“You read Agatha Christie books?” asked Sam, delighted at not only finding another reader, but also for finding a legitimate reason to like Jess apart from the weird part of his brain that kept saying she was pretty.

“Mhmm, now the question is… Poirot or Miss Marple?”

“Miss Marple, definitely. Poirot’s a little too idiosyncratic for me.”

“Idiohooha?”

“Sorry, idiosyncratic just means odd little behaviours that only that person does. That what Mr Morris, my English teacher, told us.” Sam didn’t know what to make of the slight hint of amusement in Jess’s face. “It’s my word of the day, today,” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Jess laughed. It was a sweet, open, laugh that made Sam smile at his own awkwardness. “But that’s half the fun of Poirot, his quirky little habits!”

“Poirot’s not bad, I just like the way Miss Marple seems like this typical, nosy, old lady but really, she’s as sharp as razor blades. It really shows you that people tend to be really different to how they seem to be.”

Jess considered Sam’s words, looking back over her shoulder at the house at the base of the hill. “That sounds a bit like Dean.”

“What do you mean?” Sam was genuinely curious as to how Dean could be similar to a spinster that liked to solve murder mysteries.

“Well, when Billy first spoke about him, he said he was a weirdo who didn’t talk to anyone and seemed scared of everything. But look at them now. They’re best friends who can’t shut up about what’s the best type of pie.” Jess stopped to shake a stone out of her shoe. “I think Billy just needs a while to make friends with anyone, really.”

“I don’t think it’s his fault he came to that conclusion. Dean wasn’t exactly the nicest to Priya on his first day. I can imagine Billy being annoyed at someone who was rude to his friend.”

“Dean seems alright, if a little quiet, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Nah, I don’t mind, it’s true,” Sam glanced over his shoulder as they approached the crest of the hill, “I wish he wasn’t.”

Once at the top, Jess smoothed out her dress and placed herself on a patch of bracken, while Sam plopped himself down, his ever-growing legs folding up beneath him.

“I mean, I don’t mind him being quiet, heck I don’t even mind his antisocial side all that much. It’s when I feel like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. He seems to want to avoid any kind of argument or confrontation.”

“Wait, you  _want_ arguments? We should swap brothers, you’ll get plenty of arguments with Billy,” said Jess, rolling her eyes.

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just- ” Sam looked down at the house in which his brother was eagerly trying to catch up on around a year’s worth of English lessons, eagerly trying not to be a disappointment. “That cast on his leg, that’s my fault, but he must have apologised a bazillion times for it. I’m the one who ran into the middle of the road without looking, I’m the one who should be sorry he broke his leg saving me, I’m the complete idiot in all this. But no, he blames himself for everything and it makes me mad.” Sam remembered where he was when he felt Jess’s hand rest lightly on his. “Sorry, I’m rambling again, I’ll stop.”

“It’s alright. And not meaning to sound soppy or anything, but surely you can see it’s because he really cares about you?”

“Oh trust me, I can see that. How many people jump in front of a car for you? If anything, I wish he cared less.”

“He’s your older brother, what else did you expect?”

 

* * *

 

_He drags himself onto the toilet seat and rips a few sheets of tissue off, for once not caring about being ‘wasteful’ or ‘inconsiderate’ of his father’s hard earned money. He knows how much his father owes him._

_“Terry, stop trying to fucking deny it, I’ve seen you eyeing him up and I’m okay with it. In fact, I’d like to make you a deal. Come over here, bring a hundred quid with you, and have your way with the boy.” His father paused, listening intently. Then a drunken smile spread across his face, “Completely unused goods. Don’t forget to bring the money.” He ended the call._

_He dabs away as much blood as he can, then takes some more tissue, folds it up, and places it in his oversized boxers. Using the edge of the bathtub to pull himself up, he hobbles to the sink, careful to keep the tissue in place, and watches the scarlet rivers drain down the plughole._

_His cheek twitches from the irony as he realises he’s grateful for the blood. The blood stopped the chafing after the first few thrusts. The blood acted as a- what was it? He knew the word. He’d met it before. Lubrifant? Something like that._

_He shouldn’t have said it. It was a lie, a damned lie. Almost a statistic._

_“It’s not my fault mum died.”_

_It was. There was nobody to blame but the boy she had been pushing out when her number was called. He had yelled it when his father had once again accused him of what he had spent a lifetime holding himself accountable for. He was the reason his father drank. He had nobody but himself to blame for the fact he couldn’t be like other kids. He was the cause of all misery in a poor widower’s life._

_The man had arrived in less than half an hour. He had pulled his shorts and boxers off in less than half a minute. The agony of forced entry had bloomed in less than half a second._

_He coughs into the basin, his voice hoarse from the name calling. Everything from ‘poohead’ to the more exotic ‘junkless pervert’ had been exhausted. The man hadn’t listened. The man hadn’t stopped. The man had held down his throat until he could do no more than let his body be a mannequin ‘til he’d served his time._

_He looks up at the mirror. The finger-shaped bruises around his neck will fade. The repulsion he feels when he looks into his eyes to see the filthy, stained soul underneath is far more permanent._

_The man ran his hand down his back one last time before smacking his rear and getting up. “I’ll be back,” said the man._

_He thinks about the line as he shuffles into the living room. He’s heard the line before. Something in school. Probably something to do with the magic media box his father does not approve of. Termites? Termination?_

_A little part of him wishes something would terminate him._

_He lies down on the carpet, glad the evening is warm, and places his head on the worn pillow. Thank God for creature comforts._

_His father is sat at the table, a glass of Scotch in one hand, five twenty pound notes in the other. Their eyes catch and his father averts, knocks back the drink, and leaves._

_It’s only when he hears the bedroom door click shut he allows the tears to spill. His entire body shakes as he tries to come to terms with the fact he has now been broken in every way one can be._

_“Hey Jude, don’t make it bad,” he sings, his whispers broken by sobs, “take a sad song and make it-”_

_He can’t remember the next word. He strains his memories, trying to remember his father’s drunken, tuneless, crooning of his mother’s favourite song._

_“Better.” Better. He even feels better now he’s remembered it. Marginally so, but if anything is going to go right today, he is going to remember this. He is going to hold onto this like a glowstick in the dark. Utterly useless and yet all he has._

_Suddenly, the floor starts shaking. He feels his body rock, especially his shoulders._

_The singing gets louder. It is no longer his voice._

“Dean! Are you alright?”

Dean jerked his head up to find himself in the year eleven common room of Moreton High, Billy on his left, holding the arm he’d just been shaking to steady him, and Priya on his right, offering him a tissue.

Confused by the tissue, he rubbed his fingers across his cheek, they came off wet.

Shit. He’d tried so hard not to fall asleep. But the exhaustion of revising late into the night for the upcoming exams was taking its toll.

“Remember to let her into your heart,” the common room speakers continued to play the best of The Beatles.

_The man. The first one. His hand wrapping around Dean’s. His tongue gliding along his neck._

_The croaking voice, the forgotten lyrics, the desperate wish to be clean._

“This song. I’ve-I’ve got to go.” His voice broke as he fumbled to get his rucksack onto his back.

With the aid of his crutches, Dean walked into the deserted middle yard, pausing intermittently to wipe away tears to find more soon taking their place.

“Wait up, Dea-ow!” Priya ran straight into his bag as he stopped short. Rubbing her nose, she continued, “What was that about?”

“Nothing, the song…” He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to black out the images, “Nothing.”

“What song?”

If there was anyone in this new school he trusted, it was the girl stood in front of him, wishing to only help, showing only concern. Still, there were some stories not made for sharing.

“I’m fine, really, must just be my time of the month.” He tried for a patented Dean-grin.

“You do realise that wasn’t funny?” she said, bluntly.

Dean knew it wasn’t. But being seen as a dick was better than being seen for who he was. He didn’t reply and let the silence grow.

In the end, she broke it. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked as she leaned against the pillar next to him.

Dean shook his head lightly. He might have been acting a little emotional lately, but that didn’t mean he was up for all the sharin’ and carin’ shit.

“No.”

She lifted up his left wrist, exposing the two white scars and the Pandora’s Box full of bad memories. “Will you ever talk about it?”

Damn girl didn’t miss a thing.

“No.”

She let go of his hand. Dean found he missed the feel of her warm skin on his.

“Well, if you ever change your mind, feel free to drag me out of whatever I’m doing and ramble on at me for however long you want.”

“Thanks,” he said, smiling as the Led Zeppelin lyrics replaced the melody that haunted his dreams.

She laughed and punched his shoulder. “Don’t mention it, that’s what pain-in-the-ass friends are for.”


	15. Chapter 15

A month later, exams were over, summer was here, and Dean's cast was finally gone. He threw a roundhouse kick into thin air, once again relishing the ability to bend his limbs. Twisting the other way, he put his newly freed leg on the ground and raised his left for a jumping side kick. As he landed, his right leg crumpled beneath him and he fell into a heap on the carpet, confirming he did indeed need to watch a few more martial arts videos before he could legitimately claim to be the next Chuck Norris (or maybe even Jet Li, just to annoy Sam).

As tempted as he was to next try a heel click, he pulled himself up and got back to what he had to do.

Dean made sure the coast was clear as he pulled his wardrobe drawer open. It was going to be difficult to get rid of what he'd spent nearly three months building up.

There was nothing he could do about this, though. He'd heard them talking. Something about ma'am's brother coming to visit. They were having guests over and as this was the guest room, it didn't require Einstein to work out where they'd be staying. It was far safer if he removed the evidence than they find it here and it result in him being in deeper shit than that kid in Slumdog Millionaire.

Nonetheless, he couldn't help but feel a warm sense of gratitude at the sight of underwear that didn't look like Swiss cheese.

_Who'd have thought it? Dean Whatever-his-name actually has boxers that have only ever been worn by Dean Whatever-his-name._

The grin at the thought of personal possessions quickly vanished when he heard a quick rap on the door. He paused, the false back he'd built still in his hands, as Mr Winchester walked in.

_Holy shit on a stick._

"What's that, Dean?"

Dean made a pathetic attempt to hide the cardboard behind his back. "What's what?"

Sir came over to him and took it from his pliant hands. Dean repressed a shudder.

"What's going on?" asked sir, the hint of wary caution in his voice terrifying Dean.

When he continued his silent stare at the carpet, sir pulled the underwear drawer open further to reveal Dean's secret food stash. It was crammed mainly with bits of bread with furry corners. Pie crusts had also made it in, along with the odd biscuit and cupcake. The oldest food near the back was completely green. There was a neat line from where the cardboard used to go, separating the titbits and the socks.

"Mind explaining this?"

"It's-" He paused. How does one explain away one's kleptomania to someone who's never known what it's like to have to beg for scraps? How does one convince someone that they're so fucked up, they steal in case the day comes that they are discovered for who they are: vile things that don't deserve to be fed the food of good people?

"It's the food I've stolen, sir," he finished.

"Why have you been stealing food?" The suspicion was gone, replaced by a confusion that mirrored Dean's own. He was a bad person. That's why he stole. Pretty fucking obvious.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Mr Winchester was too lost in his own nightmare to hear the apology. "Oh God, have we not been giving you enough to eat? Oh Lord, I'm so sorry, Dean." Sir's words quickened as he leaned forward to clasp his shoulder.

Dean hadn't meant to flinch. He really hadn't.

His hand slid into his left pocket. The memories he'd spent the last three months running from resurfaced at sir's words like bubbles that refuse to be trapped.

_Mr Pyper's hand reaches forward and drags him from the bin by the shoulder, where he's been caught in his illicit act._

_"Stealing from good, honest people, are we?"_

_The belt is unclasped. There's no fanfare. He just leans against the cream worktop and works on not letting a sound escape his mouth._

_"Do we not give you enough to eat?"_

_He nods mutely. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at the question, considering that this was the third day he's had to watch the family eat and then throw the food away because Kate had lost her phone and found the perfect scapegoat in him. It was the damn smell coming from the bin, as tempting as a hot water bottle on a midwinter's night, that drove him to it._

_"Then why do you do it?" He can feel the spittle land on his neck as sir roars. "Maybe it's because all you are is a dirty, little, whore." Each word at the end is accompanied by a strike. Just as the white pain starts receding to a dull ache from one blow, the next blow lands._

_His mind wanders. He'll have to think of some way to sneak some Dettol for the welts. Infections are a bitch. Maybe a couple of painkillers, though that may be too much. He can't help but feel this whole punishment is pointless; he still thinks of stealing, just the objectives have changed._

_It finally comes to an end and the belt is reattached._

_"What do you say?"_

_He stands there. He may have been reduced to eating from bins and taking shit from anyone anywhere, but he won't say it._

_The slap comes hard and fast. He suppresses a grin. Mr Pyper's slipped up and hit him where the bruises show. Nice to be the one getting on someone else's nerves for a change._

_The next words wipe the smirk right off his face. "Perhaps we should take you back to your father to learn some manners," sir looks into his eyes, watches as terror fills them._

_"Thank you," he croaks._

_"Better."_

Dean looked up from the floor to see Mr Winchester looking as guilty as an adulterer caught in the act.

"Oh God, that's it, isn't it? We've been starving our own kid and we didn't even know about it!"

"No, no sir. Storing food's just a habit I picked up over the years. I just used to take things from my plate and keep them here in case things ever got, well, bad and I've have to go a few days without." Dean paused, wanting nothing more than to stop Mr Winchester, who had shown more kindness than he'd ever deserved, feeling guilty. "I've not actually had to eat any of it while I've been here. You've never let me be hungry."

Relief and concern flooded the older man's face. "Things will never get bad, as you put it, here, son. You don't have to store food away like this."

"I was just getting rid of it when you came." Dean muttered, hating the way Mr Winchester used the word 'son'. Sam, with his bright, hazel eyes and innocent soul, was their son. Dean was merely their charity case.

"Okay then, I'll get rid of it with you. We don't need to tell Jane about this. She'll be hurt at the thought either of her sons felt she'd ever not feed them. Besides," sir picked up a particularly dark and blotchy ball, one of the first pieces of bread Dean had snuck up, "you didn't actually plan on eating any of this, did you?"

Dean shrugged. "I've eaten worse." It was easy, really. Block your nose, chew quickly, and swallow. Done.

_Of course, nausea and the runs follow soon after._

Mr Winchester pursed his lips and tightened his grip on the lump. "We should have just gone to the police about the Pypers."

Dean shook his head.

The only policeman Dean had ever known was a man named Terry. A man with rough hands and a thing for virgin children. He remembered that one time when he'd grown a pair and tried to get away, a foolhardy escape plan spurred by some stupid lecture at school about being brave. He'd run into the police station, breath hitching, hope rising, only to have it crumble to pieces as he caught sight of Terry's shark-like smile. He'd spent that night crying, convinced he'd never be able to sit comfortably in a chair again. The police were just as bad as everyone else.

"I know, you said, you don't trust them," sir sighed and dragged a hand over his face. "Anyway, any time you feel hungry, you just come tell one of us or help yourself to something. Just tell us if the supplies start getting a little low so we can buy some more."

Dean wondered which angel must be watching over him to allow filth like him to share a roof with men like the one stood in front. He felt his eyes prickle a little as he asked, "why?"

"Huh?" Mr Winchester continued to examine the food specimen in his hand with disgust.

"Why are you guys being so nice?" Dammit, his voice didn't just break there. It was just a cold. In the middle of July.

He looked up then, pity lacing his hazel eyes. "You're our son, Dean, and we refuse to treat you any different from Sa-"

"But I'm not!" The adolescent blinked rapidly, determined not to prove himself deserving of the man's pity, "I'm not your son and I never will be. I'm just some kid you think you're doing some karma-improving act with by saving."

Normally, Dean would have liked to see an adult be scalded by the truth, but here, sir's arching brows and rueful smile shot a pang of guilt through him.

_He offers you food and you're a bitch to him. Ever considered showing some fucking gratitude?_

"I didn't mean that." Dean gulped and caught sight of those hurt eyes again. "M'sorry, I don't know, sometimes I'm just left wondering if this isn't all some sort of joke." He shrugged, trying to ignore the urge to shudder at the thought of what he was dangerously close to thinking of as his family and home being some kind of sick mind game. It had to be, right? What kind of whackadoodle crazies take a random kid into their home and treat them like their own? The Pypers, he got. These people though… when would their patience end?

He braced himself for a sad smile followed by 'I guess you should probably just get your things and go now.' He deserved it and they deserved better.

It never came.

Instead, Mr Winchester sat down, cross-legged, on the floor. "If you don't see us as your family, that's totally fine. Hell, I don't think I'd want a sleep-inducing banker for a dad or a car obsessed maths teacher for a mum either. The Simpsons loving, Led Zeppelin hating younger brother might be alright though," said sir, with a wan smile.

Dean smiled back as he recalled Sam's recent threat in the car that went along the lines of 'If anyone plays Houses of the Holy one more time, so help me God, I'm going to replace the cassette player with a CD player and make you all listen to Taylor Swift.'

"Anyway, my point is, you don't have to love us. That's your choice to make and we've no right to force you to care about us. But neither can you stop us from caring about you. We see you as our son and that is final." He spoke softly as Dean, like a prepubescent girl, tried furiously to keep the tears at bay. "Are we okay now?"

Wondering once again whether it'd be foolish to allow himself a little hope, the boy let the warmth of the words flow over him. Even if all of this had to come to an end, he would be happy it happened. The memory of once being up to someone's standards would be enough.

"Hey, are we good now?" Mr Winchester pressed.

"Yes, sir."

"You know, I always feel ten years older when you address me like that," said Mr Winchester, as he pulled out the drawer completely and started walking towards the bin.

Forcing a grin, Dean emptied the rubbish into it and helped slot the box back into its grooves. They then walked down to dinner, both knowing he'd not be sneaking anything up in his shirt this time.

"Thank you," said Dean.

He might have been living with a family of whackadoodle crazies, but at least here his gratitude was heartfelt.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan to update every Wednesday from now on.

Sam wondered what he must have done in his last life to deserve having his holidays ruined like this.

It was the start of the summer holidays and as always, they had visitors for a week, one of whom was definitely unwelcome.

"I swear it always smells of manure up north."

She had barely gotten out of the car and she was at it again. Linda Carling. Sixteen year old princess. Amateur model. Summer break ruiner. Sam's cousin.

"It's lovely to have you with us, Tom. I hope the journey was alright?" Mum went over and wrapped her brother in one of her bear hugs, lifting him an inch off the ground in her enthusiasm.

Uncle Tom grinned back and said, "Angel here made me stop a million times but I think I made it in one piece."

There was always something so open and friendly about Uncle Tom that made Sam want to tell him about everything that had happened, irrespective of their importance.

"Good to see you again," Sam's voice was muffled as he buried his face in the man's shoulder.

"You've turned into a giant over the last year!" He felt a hand ruffle his hair, "I might need to run the garden shears past this," he laughed.

"I don't think it'll improve it in any way." There was that brittle voice again that was the only down side to his uncle's yearly visits. It was incredible how different father and daughter were.

_She must be more like her mum._

Sam had always wondered what Uncle Tom's ex-wife had been like. He'd tried asking his mum, but his mum had just looked sad and shaken her head so he didn't ask her again.

Taking a step back so his father could greet his brother-in-law and ask the usual 'how's the big city doing?', Sam spotted his big brother dragging two suitcases up the porch. He was staring at the ground as he pulled the bags along the path, with occasional glances up at the family gathering occurring on the doorstep, his face neutral while his eyes screamed longing.

Sam moved to tell Dean it was fine, they'd get the bags later, but Uncle Tom beat him to it.

"Oh leave those, don't worry about them! So, you must be the newest Winchester. Nice to meet you, Dean," Uncle's beam faltered when Dean started wiping his hands on his jeans and offered one out to shake. Uncle Tom ignored the hand and proceeded to bear hug the life out of the boy as he had with everyone else. He let go to inspect the young addition to the family. "With that face, I bet you're a hit with the ladies."

Dean's shrugged and tried to stop himself from blushing. "Nice to meet you too," he mumbled.

Meanwhile, Sam took the two handles of the suitcases and started pulling them up the porch. God knows what was in them, probably bricks or something. There was no way anyone ever needed to pack this much for just one week away.

Dean came over as soon as he caught sight of him past Uncle Tom's rather filled-out figure. "It's fine Sammy, I can take them."

Sam shoved Dean away lightly and shifted his hands to just one suitcase, hoping to get them up one at a time. "Don't. Call. Me. Sammy." He grunted as he gave one last pull and managed to get the bigger bag over the doorstep.

"Aww, does it annoy ickle Sammy?" Linda tittered as she walked through the doorway and turned into the living room.

"Shut up, only he gets to call me that," replied Sam, seeing the contradiction but not caring. It was the truth.

Dean turned back round to make an easy job of pulling in the second bag. Sam didn't miss the badly smothered grin.

* * *

Michael was pretty sure Jane just whispered 'bitches be crazy' under her breath. He patted her leg and sent a smile her way. He could understand her frustration. This was the third time their niece had complained about the food that night.

"There's too much sugar, I'm on a low calorie diet," she whined as she pushed the apple pie away.

Dean's eyes jumped to the plate, his own dessert long finished.

"It's okay darling, you don't have to eat it. I'm always useful in such situations," Tom smiled down at his daughter like the sun shone out her as- backside. "Jane, your cooking is stellar, as always."

"Michael made the pie, desserts are his department." Bless Jane. She was blunt, rough around the edges and more than a little headstrong, but her honesty was as unrelenting as the North Korean emigration ban.

Michael's was less so. He felt barely a sliver of guilt as lied through his teeth. "I'm sorry about putting too much sugar in. I'll try and avoid it in the future."

He wondered if he should be worried about how comfortable he felt lying.

_Ahh, the life of a banker._

He looked once again at his older son as the boy's eyes followed the spoonful of custard and pie into the abyss of Tom's mouth.

"Dean, would you like some more?" he asked, praying for once he'd feel comfortable enough to be honest. He'd not asked for, nor accepted, seconds since his first meal with the family. Eyed everything, sure, but taken? Never.

The prayer fell on deaf ears.

"Nah, I'm fine," he said gruffly, as he turned and grinned at his brother before enquiring about his latest magic trick.

It would have been the perfect façade if he hadn't seen the boy swallow his spit.

Dinner soon came to an end as Linda pushed her chair away from the table. "I'm off up. Daddy, mind if I take the bed?"

For a split second, Tom's brow crinkled, but it was quickly replaced by the friendly smile he always wore. "Sure thing sweetheart, I thought we could share but it's fine, I'll take the floor."

As always, Tom and Dean offered to help clear the table but Jane shooed them upstairs. Sam followed and soon it was just Michael and Jane left downstairs, tidying the table and washing the dishes.

"By the way, your pie was great. I don't think I've seen Dean finish his so quickly before," she put away the last pan and started on the plates.

"Your vegetables weren't undercooked either, don't worry. She's just young, she doesn't know what she says sometimes."

Jane sighed and leaned against the countertop. Michael was reminded of someone else who had leaned against a kitchen worktop in a similar manner nearly three months ago. A young boy with a bloodstained shirt and scared eyes who had slowly become the son they hadn't known they needed.

_Dean's come so far… if only he'd learn to just ask for some damn pie._

Jane's words, upon returning from Dean's room late that night, still stung his ears.

_'He's terrified we'll kick him out for any tiny mistake he makes. Michael, our own son offered to eat less with the hope we'll keep him if he does. What did the bastards do to him?'_

Once again, Michael wondered if Dean would ever be able to see them as more than 'sir' and 'ma'am'.

"Michael?"

Michael shook himself out of his reverie and closed the fridge door. "Sorry, I got distracted, what were you saying?"

"I was asking if I should have a word with Tom about how he's raising the kid. I mean, I don't want to interfere, but he's had a difficult time being a single parent and I feel I owe it to my niece to make sure she doesn't turn into an insufferable princess. I really don't know. Should I?"

"You could try, if you could keep it subtle. But you've got to remember, Linda's all Tom has left from an unhappy marriage that led to five years of his life going down the drain. Of course he'll want to convince himself something, or, in this case, someone, good came out of it." He paused to let his better half consider this. Jane's determination to do as much good as possible before she snuffed it was balanced by Michael's wish to slowly, logically, consider the whole situation before making any rash decisions. It wasn't really that much of a surprise that they'd fallen pretty madly in love with each other soon after they'd first met.

"Besides, she's not all that bad. Think about it. Instead of spending her summer holidays in London with her friends, she's dragged up to the countryside to spend a week with cousins she doesn't even really get along with. It's understandable that she'd be a bit grouchy."

"Damn you Michael Winchester and your way of making me see sense."

Michael smiled and leaned in to give his wife a peck on the cheek.

"And by the way, Dean asked if Priya could come over tomorrow for the picnic and I said yes. It shouldn't be a problem, should it?" Michael wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on the top of her hair.

If Michael was honest, he was sure there wouldn't be a problem. The Winchester and Carling annual picnic in that-field-in-the-middle-of-nowhere was always overflowing with food and the Impala had space for one more.

"Of course not, I'm glad he's making friends." Her reply was muffled as she spoke into his shirt.

They stood like that for a while, feeling the other's heartbeat, when the sound of two pairs of feet filtered down from the stairs.

"… still don't get it, why would anyone willingly go on a plane?" Dean's question was muffled by the walls.

"Gee, I dunno Dean, but I think it's something to do with going from place to place," came the exasperated reply.

There came a pause, before the abrupt comeback. "Shut up, midget."

"I'm nearly as tall as you now, the nickname's kind of pointless."

"Like hell you are."

There was a shuffling of feet.

"Told you so! If your hair didn't stick up, I'd be taller"

"Yeah, well, shut it John Cleese," Dean countered. The living room door opened and the Hardy boys entered.

"Who's he?" asked Sam, holding two pillows as Dean set two blankets down on the carpet.

"Fawlty Towers guy, he's pretty tall."

Sam was about to retort when Jane interrupted. "What are you guys doing down here?"

Dean straightened up, looking like he'd been caught filching the Mona Lisa. "Mr Carling and Linda have the guest room so I came down here to sleep. Sam insisted on coming with me," he looked down, "I told him not to come, but he wouldn't listen."

_Oh shi-ugar. How did we forget the guest room wasn't free anymore?_

_(And of course Dean couldn't have just told us that he'd lost his room. No, that'd be showing an acceptance of the room as his, an acceptance of this being his home, and Dean Winchester doesn't see this as home.)_

"If you're going to give up your room, so am I. Besides, at least now Uncle Tom has a bed too," said Sam, his face on the verge of a pout.

"I'm so sorry, boys. Linda and Tom always take the guest room every year so we just kind of forgot," Jane glanced at Michael, who returned the look of guilt, "we'd have given up our room had we remembered."

"It's fine ma'am, really. Besides," Dean tousled Sam's floppy, brown hair, "I've got company, what else do I need?"

Michael was about to ask the boys to take their room and they'd sleep downstairs when Sam bounced excitedly and said, "We're camping out down here together, it's gonna be fun!"

He sighed. There was no winning against that megawatt smile. "Alright boys, but remember, we've got the picnic tomorrow so I want you snoring by one."

"Sure thing, Dean, you take the couch, I'll sleep on the floor." Grabbing a pillow, Sam started arranging a spot on the carpet.

"No way, you're taking the couch, I'm having the floor," said Dean gruffly, as he took a blanket and spread it out on the sofa for Sam before patting his head.

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean seemed to miss it so he rolled them again for good measure. "You're sleeping on the couch! Why do we have to do what you say?"

"Because I'm older, Sammy, now get your as-behind on that recliner," said Dean, as he threw down his pillow.

"Not fair!" Sam huffed and planted himself firmly on the ground. He turned and stuck out his arms, left palm open and upturned, with his right hand curled in a fist on top of it, a knowing smile playing across his face. "Fine then, whoever wins gets the floor."

Dean looked at him, his face the portrait of naivety, and mimicked his gesture. "Uh, okay then…"

They both hit their fists against their palms three times and chanted, "Rock, paper, scissors!"

Sam started crowing in victory before looking down and stopping abruptly. "But-but you always throw scissors?" He looked utterly befuddled as Dean wore a shit-eating grin and waved his flat palm at the kid.

"You know the rules, Sammy. Paper beats rock, though God knows how," he said, fluffing up Sam's pillow before kneeling down on the carpet next to his bed.

Sam's hazel eyes slowly widened with realisation. "You, you did that on purpose! You knew I'd think you'd pick scissors and so I'd pick rock and then you went for-"

"You won, fair and square. Now quit grumbling and go to sleep," interjected Dean, as he slid under his blanket and turned to face his younger brother, the cocky grin having transformed into a gentler smile.

Sam threw himself on the sofa and glared at Dean. "God, you're so bossy."

"Your face is bossy."

The corners of Sam's mouth twitched.

Michael turned to his wife, a small smile gracing her features as she watched her two sons squabble. With a gentle tug, he pulled her away and they started on their way up the stairs.


	17. Chapter 17

_Skipping over the last stair, he tiptoes into the kitchen and opens the pantry cupboard to pull out the strawberry jam._

_He tries to ignore the light coming from the utility room. The door is slightly ajar and he knows he won't like what he sees inside._

_Leaning against the kitchen worktop, he slowly applies the jam to a slice of bread as he muses if his family isn't just the slightest bit dysfunctional._

_Sure, his father is a banker, his mother works for the council, and his sister is a socialite in training with hopes for a career in public relations. They're about as white picket fence as they come._

_But there's also this boy. This boy the family never talks about. Never even talks_ to.  _The thing lives in the utility area and swears if you annoy him too much. But it only takes a few choice words regarding his father to get him to fetch you the moon. The boy that missed his meals today._

_A pang of guilt shoots through him as he stares at the jam-covered bread in his hand. He finds he's not hungry anymore._

_Indecision tears him apart as he stares at the slight opening in the doorframe._

_His father wouldn't approve of him feeding the bastard when he's been so rude to Kate. The bastard told her to cry him a fucking river and no, he wasn't going to redo her five thousand word essay because she'd gone and spilt coffee on it._

_The sound of leather on skin had echoed round the house for a good hour. To say Kate had been a little pissed would win you the Understatement of the Year award. He's been in a few fights with Kate, mainly when they were younger. The girl's the Hulk when she's angry._

_But his father had been pleased. He'd muttered something about 'knowing one's place' and 'not running an orphanage' and had given Kate a fond smile followed by a nod of approval._

_He really wanted a nod like that. He'd do anything for that affection. The boy was just collateral damage._

_Or so he told himself every time his kicks landed, every time the thing let out a quiet hiss as the belt struck over and over and over._

_But sometimes he couldn't. Sometimes the fickle approval didn't seem worth those tear-stung green eyes. Sometimes he found himself wondering what the boy dreamed of. Not the nightmares, the ones that got him moved from the upstairs box room to the utility cupboard within a week of living with them. But his dreams of the future. Did the thing dream of travelling the world as he did? Did the bastard think about having his own family and home?_

_Sometimes he couldn't forget that the thing had a name._

_This is one of those times._

_He edges closer to the gap, the name playing on his lips. He looks in to see the boy dozing lightly, pen still in hand, the second version of Kate's essay in front of him. The walls are bare, the floor littered with a few books, pieces of paper, and a school bag._

_He can't help the little smile when he sees the trail of headphones and the little Walkman cassette player they lead to._

_The Walkman is the closest he's come to ever saying thank you. The homework had been a short story on the paranormal. His, or rather the boy's, story had garnered him the praise of multiple members of the English department, all mentioning how the fear and desperation of the main character was palpable. But more than that, it had gotten him a nod and a throwaway comment of "that's my boy" from his father that had meant the world to him. He'd owed the kid one._

_The tapes and player were going to be thrown away anyway. They had been a gift from his uncle; an uncle that rarely visited and didn't know his nephew preferred Liszt to Led Zeppelin, Beethoven to Blue Oyster Cult. Figuring it must get lonely in the cold utility room, with its whitewashed walls and permanent problem with damp, he'd given them to Dean._

_Dean._

_It feels odd to think the name. It somehow makes it all more real. The black bruises and red welts suddenly become more vivid, now the thing is no longer a thing, but rather a living, breathing, person._

_He pushes the door open further and steps in._

_Dean wakes with a jump. "Son of a bitch!" The boy wipes the bit of drool that had started to leak out when he'd rested his chin on his chest to sleep._

_"Dean?" The word feels strange in his mouth. Dean is quick to look up, surprised. Whether it's to see his boss's son in his room (more closet but hey, you say scone, I say scon), or in response to hearing his name for a change, is unclear._

_"How's the essay going?" He squeezes in and sits on the couch, avoiding the broken spring. That thing has the ability to rip your pants from your backside._

_"Fine, fine. I was working on it." Dean's voice is groggy and the normally stoic boy lets slip a small wince as he adjusts himself against the wall._

_"Back still hurting?" He surprises himself with that one. Like many other rules regarding the boy, this one's also unspoken. You do not acknowledge his pain. To do so is to admit he feels, he's human, a kid. No, you just accept that while you might cry over a splinter, the thing feels nothing when the metal of a belt buckle rips into his skin. "I mean, you shouldn't have spoken to Kate like that bu-"_

_His justification of why one of the rules of the household was just broken is cut short by a quiet "fuck you" from Dean._

_He just stares. The silence grows between them. He sees why his father had been right about the freak. Right all along, as he always is. He was the idiot, for thinking the kid could do with company, understanding._

_Anger boils up in, great and roaring, threatening to spill into violence. Anger at the whore in front of him who dares to speak back. Anger at the teachers who only praise his work when it's not him who's written it. Anger at the sister who's always been tall and cold and perfect, the apple of everyone's eye. Anger at the father who's so damn hard to impress, he's sunk to hurting the defenseless to stop this damn rage from aching any more._

_The threat becomes a reality._

_His right arm rises and he throws a right hook straight at Dean's ear._

_The boy's head whips to the side, then turns back. There's no repercussion, no returns with interest. The thing just seems a little dazed but generally unperturbed. It's too damn easy to just lay into him, knowing he'll always be there, always be silent. He finds he wants to hit him again. To keep on beating the shit out of the thing until he passes out or grows a pair and hits back._

_His biceps contract as his fingers form a fist once again. The feeling of power is a heady rush of warmth in this cold, barren, alcove. Knowing, for once, he doesn't have to impress, doesn't have to be the smart, charming, handsome, polite, perfect son of a banker and a councillor, doesn't have to care, is intoxicating._

_He's stopped. He finds he cannot move his arm forward, can get it to do nothing but unfurl and dangle at his side._

_What stops him isn't Dean's hand. What stops him is the boy's eyes. The lower lids raised slightly as he braces himself for the onslaught of blows, the green orbs a concoction of pain, fear, humiliation, sorrow, and maybe a little bit of petulance._

_He's reminded of himself. The stuck out lower lip whenever Kate gets to have the last custard cream. The creasing of the brow in a sulk as the radio is changed from Classic FM to Capital._

_The boy in front of him is no longer a freak. He's Dean. A kid with a strong vehiclist streak, what with his love for cars and hate for planes. A kid who secretly listens to rock music on an unwanted Walkman. A kid only a few months older than himself. A kid who's not eaten all day._

_"Sorry," he mumbles, "wait here."_

_It's not like Dean had plans to leave._

_He hurries into the kitchen and brings in the uneaten piece of bread. Dean's still sat on the floor, confused._

_"Here, eat this," he holds out the bread, only to have Dean back away, longing and stubbornness battling it out in those wide eyes._

_"What's the catch?" Dean's voice is gruff, his barriers are up._

_He knows what to do. It's not the first time he's offered the guy food and he knows Dean's stomach is destined to win the battle of wills in the end. Starvation leaves little room for pride._

_"No catch," he rips off a bit of the crust and pops it in his mouth. Hungry eyes follow the food on its journey from hand to mouth. "Just thought you might be peckish after not eating all day," he says, speaking through the mush of bread and jam._

_The taste reminds him of his initial intentions in coming down here. His stomach tells him to forget his unappreciated act of charity and just eat the damn bread._

_But he can't. He can't because as he's thinking this, Dean has edged forward, and is starting to put out his hand. He can't because, for once, he's going to sacrifice a little for another kid who can also be petulant, snarky and rude, another kid who also gets sick of having to live up to everyone else's expectations._

_He holds the food out and the boy tentatively takes it, treating it as both the Holy Grail and an IED at the same time._

_The look of sheer pleasure that passes over the sixteen year old's face as he shovels the bread in his mouth and licks the jam off his fingers without decorum makes the slight rumble in his stomach worth it. He finds he wants to sneak down every night and give the kid something to eat if it's going to make him look so damn content every time._

_Dean pauses, a finger still in his mouth, "Mrs Pyper won't get mad tomorrow, will she?"_

_"If she notices the bread's gone, I'll tell her I came down for a snack. Your name won't come into it."_

_"You're a freaking yo-yo, you know that?" the older boy mutters. He swallows the last of the jam down before he speaks again, this time voice is filled with the raw, needy, innocence of a five year old. "You sure you won't tell?"_

_He's not sure of much in his life. He's not sure if his parents will accept he doesn't really want to go into accountancy and would rather be a wildlife photographer. He's not sure if he'll ever be the son they want and deserve. He's not sure if his father has ever felt even an ounce of love for him that hasn't been accompanied by terms and conditions. But here, at this moment, sat on this old, broken, sofa, sandwiched between a washing machine and an ex-whore, he's damn sure he's not going to rat Dean out._

_"Yeah, I'm sure."_

_A small, rare, smile crosses his adopted brother's face as he finishes licking his fingers and picks the pen up. He can see the boy's lips form the word 'thanks' but he doesn't hear it. The room starts to blur as warmth spreads through his limbs, warmer than the utility room has ever been, and the feel of cloth underneath and blanket on top comes to him._

_Slowly, he wakes._

Max kept his eyes closed, trying to remember that smile and the feeling of having done good. The dream was fragile like a web of glass, the more he tried to preserve it, the quicker the threads shattered.

He opened his eyes and stared at the white ceiling. His stomach rumbled.

Silently, Max got up, slid out of his room, and headed downstairs. Sliding over the last step, the squeaky one, he couldn't help but notice how much duller the carpet now looked, compared to a few months ago, dust accumulating in the corners.

_The new maid's not as good as the old one._

Turning into the kitchen, he paused, hand on the doorknob. Did he really want to relive it? To face he'd punched a defenseless guy for the heck of it? To face that that wasn't anywhere near the worst of what he'd done?

The doorknob turned with a slight creak. He had to face it. It was either that or have the constant weight of guilt in the pit of his stomach eat at him until there was nothing left to consume.

Inside, the door to the utility room stood wide open, the dark seeping out into the moonlit kitchen. Max took out a slice of bread from the packet and got out the jam from the fridge.

Things had changed. He let his mind wander as he spread the jam with smooth strokes. It had been odd to get used to doing his own homework, though his grades had improved massively. His parents had showered him with praises, flaunting his report card to friends and family in the petty pissing contest they called 'socialising'. The hug from his father had filled him with elation until his following comment of "it's because the whore's presence is gone" had popped his bubble. Of course, his father was looking for a confirmation that getting rid of the boy had been worth it. It was perfectly human and not a detriment to his father's character. He believed that, he really did.

Still, it didn't stop the feeling of inadequacy rising up inside him, like bile after too many drinks. No matter what he did or how much he tried, he couldn't win.

For a second, he'd felt pure, unadulterated, hate. He'd hated the way it all linked back to Dean, hated the fact his work had gotten so bad because of his dependence on him to do it for him, hated his mother for insisting on adopting a child to rear as a maid, hated the very father hugging him for agreeing and encouraging his son to slack off and get the whore to do it instead. It was then that he knew for sure that his family was dysfunctional.

Stepping into the darkened room, he turned on the light. The whitewashed walls made the room glaringly bright and he squinted as his eyes adjusted.

There was a light coat of dust over everything apart from the washing machine and tumble dryer. No one ever came in here apart from Jen, the new household help.

Max gazed at the couch and remembered the prone body that used to lie on it.

_The shirt is off to let the breaks in the skin get some air. The back, covered with its mix of freshly whipped red and previously scarred white, looks like a grotesque parody of Where's Wally._

_The kid is on the floor, scribbling away, as he waits impatiently for the finished maths homework._

_Dean is lying there, staring at the ceiling, his face a picture of serenity as he listens to Brian Johnson sing about a woman with American thighs._

While he'd been there, Max had felt he'd always done more than he needed to. He'd never  _had_  to give the boy the extra food or the Walkman. They'd been products of his boundless generosity.

The same applied to the few moments of friendship they'd occasionally shared, usually over anecdotes about Kate's most recent temper tantrum. In the back of his mind, he could still hear Dean's quiet, rolling, laugh as he imitated Kate asking "Is it Tony Hawk or Stephen Hawking that's the skateboarder?"

Now, as he stood and gazed at the ugly piece of metal sticking out of the left cushion of the couch, he realised how little he'd done. How often had he found some petty excuse to take out his frustrations at school, his parents, himself, on Dean?

Sure, he might have had a little more humanity than the rest of his family, but he'd not done nearly enough. Wherever Dean was, Max just hoped he was away from people like himself. People who thought sporadic acts of compassion made up for eons of barbarism.

Remembering a young man's clenched jaw and aching eyes, Max knelt down between the whitewashed wall and the broken sofa and prayed for absolution.


	18. Chapter 18

The art of balancing two jugs of mango lassi while walking up a hill is an underappreciated one indeed.

Priya was still merely a novice when it came to such fine ministrations.

"Fucking hell," she rolled her eyes and started to wipe away the yoghurt drink that had just splashed on her shorts.

_Maybe shorts were a bad idea._

The tendrils of self-consciousness started to snake through her mind as she looked down at her Neanderthal legs. She'd originally opted for trousers, like always, but the heat and a moment of confidence had spurred her to just go for the option that guaranteed copious quantities of humiliation.

_And since when did you care what everyone else thought?_

Picking up the jugs, she proceeded up the street, knowing her bravado to be at least a few shades off the truth.

As she neared the top of the street, she saw Dean close the bonnet of the snazzy car they had (Dean had mentioned the name before, something to do with deer) and pat the hood.

"There we go, baby, that should do it," he said, as he wiped his hands on an old rag. Looking up to see Priya approaching, he called out. "What time do you call this, Bookworm?"

"You try walking with two full jugs of lassi and sweaty hands," she grumbled.

"Were you really scared you'd drop one? Because it looks like you might have had an accident," he smirked at the yellow stain on Priya's shorts, biting his lip to hold back the laughter.

"That was from the terror of seeing your face, Freckles."

"The sheer handsomeness that overwhelming?"

Priya stopped her adjustment of the jugs in her hand to purse her lips and glare at the asshole. The fact he was sort of good looking, in a charming, goofy kind of way, didn't help matters at all.

He turned to the front door and yelled inside. "Hey, Sam! Looks like you've got someone stealing your bitchface! Want me to tell her it's patented?"

Sam stomped out of the door and whacked his brother on the arm. "Dean! I don't have a bitchface and you know it."

The glare the younger Winchester shot the elder was so similar to the way Priya had looked moments earlier, she couldn't hold back a snicker. The noise brought the attention of the two brothers to herself.

"Hi Priya, apologies for my lummox of a brother," said Sam, having finished committing GBH to Dean.

Priya laughed. "Wow, lummox? You're really bringing out the big guns today, Sam."

"Yeah, it was my word of the day last Thursday." Sam grinned back.

"I'll leave you two nerds to write a dictionary together. Meanwhile, I'm going inside to help bring stuff out," said Dean.

Priya gave Dean a light shove. "Just because you get stuck at the title of Stephen King's It. And if you're going inside, take these with you," she handed over the two lassi jugs, "try not to spill it. My Dad and I made it so it probably classes as a biohazard."

Dean wandered off inside, leaving Sam and Priya to talk about school and the holidays, the conversation slowly leading to Sam's current source of irritation.

"She's whiny and complains about  _everything_. I swear, if she laughs at any more of my magic tricks, or calls mum's cooking 'crap on a plate' again, I'm going to accidentally throw her out of a window," Sam huffed.

"Linda sounds like an absolute delight," agreed Priya.

Speak of the Devil. Linda came out of the door, followed by Dean's parents. The red-tailed, double-horned, pitchfork wielding beast was quite the sight to behold. Straight brown hair that fell to her petite waist, in a neon pink dress that Priya could never (and had no wish to) work, she looked like she'd stepped out of Vogue. She walked with poise, her slim legs smooth and tanned.

"Hello Priya, lovely to meet you. I'm Michael," said Dean's Dad. Priya quit staring before she got charged with stalking and shook the proffered hand.

"Nice to meet you too, Mr Winchester."

"Oh God, another who refuses to call me Michael," Mr Winchester rolled his eyes.

Before Priya had the chance to wonder what that comment meant, she was enveloped in a hug from Dean's Mum. "Priya! I've heard so much about you, so great to finally see you." She let go to look over her appraisingly. "Thanks for the mango milkshake, though you really didn't need to make anything."

"It was my pleasure really. Besides, I needed willing test subjects to see if it classes as toxic waste or not," Priya grinned.

"I'm bored. Can we just get this damn picnic over with?" asked Linda.

Sam really had been right. The nasal tone was enough to set one's teeth on edge.

In the meantime, another man, who Priya presumed was Linda's father, stepped off the front porch and came to join the group. "Alright sweetie, I'm guessing you're coming in my car?" The man turned to Priya and gave her a warm, inviting, smile. "You must be Dean's friend. I'm Tom, or, as Jane likes to call me, 'that annoying bugger who doesn't call often enough'."

Like many before her, Priya wondered how father and daughter could seem so different.

They loaded the food baskets and picnic mats into the car. Dean opted to sit in the middle of the back of the Impala (so not quite deer, but close enough) so Priya took the right seat.

Sam stood behind Dean, waiting for him to get in. "Dean! Quit feeling up the car and get in it, will you?"

Dean's head whipped round in mock anger. "It's not an 'it', it's a she." Turning back to the metal of his dreams, he ran his hand along the roof once again. "He didn't mean it sweetheart, you're gorgeous and he knows it."

Sam rolled his eyes and turned to Mrs Winchester, who was sliding in behind the wheel. "Mum, it looks like you have competition for 'Family Member Most in Love with an Inanimate Object'."

"I don't know, you're pretty close to your laptop, Sam. But seriously Dean, get in now."

It was as if Dean had been prodded with a red hot poker. He scrambled to open the door and threw himself in, mumbling a quiet "sorry, ma'am" to his mother. Mrs Winchester glanced at Dean through the mirror, her light brown eyes laced with pity.

Priya couldn't quite make head or tail of what had just happened and was pretty sure the warm weight sat next to her wouldn't offer any answers, so she did what she always did in such situations: stored the incident away for later appraisal.

The journey there was filled with Sam's enormous grin (Priya resisted the urge to pinch the life out of those adorable, dimpled, cheeks), Mrs Winchester's white knuckles on the steering wheel, and Dean's grumbles of "how many times does the woman have to say 'ever' before we get the point that they're not getting back together?"

"Now you know how I feel every day listening to AC/DC singing about being struck by lightning. Besides, the repetition helps emphasise the point." Sam bobbed his head along to Taylor Swift lamenting about her latest break up.

"Yeah, the point being she can't write decent lyrics."

"Your face can't write decent lyrics."

"That's the lamest comeback you could possibly have used there, bitch."

"Yeah, because you  _never_ use that one, jerk." Sam let his shoulders slump and spoke in rough baritone, "Your  _face_  is stupid. Your  _face_  smells like a toilet. Your  _face_  is bossy. Your  _face_ -"

"Alright, alright, I get it," Dean groused as Priya hid her smile at Sam's impression.

"On a more serious note, Mrs Turrow set us some optional holiday work of looking up polynomial long division. I tried but I don't get it, mind showing me?"

The earnest look on Sam's face reminded Priya of Sonali's eager eyes as she brought in any homework she struggled –or just couldn't be bothered- to complete.

"You're such a nerd, even doing the optional homework," Dean grinned, "But sure thing, Sam. Though I gotta say, Priya's a whiz at maths. She'd probably do a much better job of explaining it."

Sam stared at the floor before looking up at his brother with wide eyes. "I don't care who's better, I wanna learn from you, Dean. I hope you don't mind, Priya," said Sam, shyly.

"Of course not. Besides, Dean doesn't give himself enough credit. He's not the lummox he pretends to be," Priya grinned, before rapping on Dean's skull.

The boy tried to brush away the compliment with a light shrug and a comment of "I don't even know what lummox means. Sounds like a spell from Harry Potter."

"You're thinking of  _lumos._ " Both Sam and Priya spoke simultaneously.

"Nerds." Dean coughed.

* * *

Linda didn't enjoy lying, but she did it anyway.

"These sandwiches taste awful," she moaned.

Dean let out a quiet but audible gasp and murmured "heathen" under his breath.

She could imagine he thought that, he'd eaten five already. Linda couldn't help but find it odd how he'd taken all five on his first go and had refused all seconds. But then again, Dean was an odd child, with his frequent exclamations of 'son of a bitch' followed by quick mumbles of 'sorry sir'. He didn't really make sense but Linda found she didn't really care.

Nevertheless, seeing Dean speaking far more freely around her and her dad was surprisingly pleasant, but she couldn't let that show, so she sent a glare his way. It didn't help that he was right, too. The sandwiches really were enough to make heaven drool. But complimenting wasn't going to get her what she wanted.

They were sat on a large beach mat in stinking field in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by midges. Linda really did hate the countryside. There was frankly nothing to love about fields full of manure and dead rabbits.

But she knew her father adored it. Rearing animals and planting crops had formed the majority of his childhood growing up on his parents' farm. Their yearly trip to the moors always brought back happy memories of harvests spent in the sun.

That's why Linda had to say what she did.

"The countryside is rubbish. Why do we have to come here every time?"

It didn't quite get the reaction she wanted.

"Because I know how much you love meeting up with little Sam and your Aunt and Uncle really," said her father. She would have believed her father to truly be that oblivious if it weren't for the slight twinkle in his eye.

Linda huffed and crossed her arms, rolling her eyes for good measure. As the adults ignored her frustrations and continued their conversation about the economic climate over cans of beer, she found her thoughts drifting to London again.

_They'll be uploading pictures from the party onto Facebook now. There'll be frantic texts being sent, all the gossip on who said what being traded. Liz must be really hung over if she hasn't sent you the daily update._

God, it would be so much easier if she was just  _there_ , participating in the drunken giggling, rather than sat here, fiddling with her phone, waiting for her friend to hurry up and get sober. She pulled out the device again and bashed in the password, anger boiling up at the thought that next year, the year after, and the year after that, it'd always be the same. His wishes would always trump her own.

There was no badly spelled message with enough grammatical errors to make Noam Chomsky cry. Her inbox was empty.

Jane seemed to have noticed Linda's annoyance. "Why don't you kids go for a walk? Just be back in a couple of hours or so." She tried her best to give Linda a strained smile. At least there was one person her plan was working on.

Dean stood up quickly and picked up his plate, along with Sam's, who was busy in a bizarre discussion with Priya about both the Treaty of Versailles and glow-in-the-dark jellyfish. Linda swore all the kids here were weird.

Sam's slanted eyes grew wide as he felt his plate slip from his fingers and he made a move to grab it back. Dean skirted out of the way and stuck out his tongue, leaning in to ruffle the boy's hair, eliciting a cry of "get offa me!" He next went to get Priya's plate but she was too quick, taking her own and running to the black bin bag where all the used plates were being thrown.

The boy shrugged, a light smile playing on his lips. He next came over to her. Without a word, she stuck out her plate and let him take it, swallowing the guilt that built up in her throat.

You can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an early update and, because I'm in a really good mood, there will be another update on Thursday, after which it'll be back to every Wednesday.
> 
> Please drop me a comment if you read this fic, it's really great to hear your thoughts. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed/left kudos/bookmarked.
> 
> P.S. If you're here only for the brothers, you might want to stop reading at the point where the two girls split off from the two boys and skip to the next chapter as I'll be following the girls rather than the Winchesters.

When Dean got back they all started walking away from the picnic site, Sam leading the way as he knew the area best. The field was like every other field in the whole freaking world: lots of grass and a strong smell of eau de dairy.

"You know what Sammy? I reckon I know why you like the country so much. It's because you're a moose."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Just because I'm taller than you."

"You're so not!" replied Dean. Seeing that he'd convinced no one, he continued, "Besides, you're only a giant because you're secretly a Sasquatch."

"Yeah, well, you look like Rapunzel, so you can't talk!"

"Like hell I do _._ Priya, back me up here," he turned to look at the girl, who was currently trying to muffle a snort of laughter as a cough.

"I didn't see it til now, but oh God, you  _do_ ," she laughed again as Dean looked horrified. "But Sam has the long, wavy locks."

It was Sam's turn to glare and mumble 'I  _don't_ ' as Dean grinned and tried to flick his hair with a comment of 'so lustrous and vibrant'.

They hiked into yet another field, their parents a mere dot on the horizon from this one. The pleasant silence grew and Linda found herself almost enjoying the sight of miles of bracken and the tall, proud sunflowers that popped out in between. Almost.

Dean took off his leather jacket and tied it round his hips.

"This must be the first time I've seen the great Dean Winchester in fewer than three layers," joked Priya.

"Quit your drooling, Bookworm," he gave her a light shove.

"Like I'd waste drool on an arse like you, Freckles." She shoved him back, her small smile having grown into an outright grin.

"My arse is beautiful and you know it."

There came simultaneous whacks from both sides, with Sam's being accompanied by 'too much information', and Priya's by 'like hell it is'.

They seemed to have been walking for  _miles_. Carefully, Sam led them around a diarrhoeal cow dropping before turning to look at the manure again.

"Do you know what my word of the day is today?" Sam smirked at his brother, "It's incontinent."

Dean came to a halt with a jerk. "Dude, what the hell?" His voice came out squeaky, on the verge of breaking.

"The walls are paper thin. I can hear  _everything._ " The kid's dimpled grin grew wider.

"You're such a pervert Sam, it's almost impressive," said Dean, trying to quell the blush rising up his cheeks. "Hey, are you still crushing on Taylor Swift?" he shot back.

Linda watched as the tips of Sam's ears turned crimson as he replied with, "You're one to talk, you've got a thing for Dr Sexy!"

"No I don't!" Dean spluttered.

"Seriously, you can miss an episode of Top Gear, but you practically throw a hissy fit if we don't record Dr Sexy, MD for you."

Dean cocked his head to the side in consideration then shrugged. "It is a compelling show. The cowboy boots do it for me."

Priya chuckled at Linda's side. She was sorely tempted to join her but that'd be admitting that she didn't really mind her cousins and, maybe, she even sort of found their company amusing. That was definitely not happening.

Dean wasn't quite so easily defeated. "Sam, remember when you ran out of the room because Ronald McDonald came on the TV?"

"C'mon, everyone knows clowns are freaky. You saw It, you know how bloody terrifying they are."

Dean nodded, "I'll give you that. Priya made me watch it, the bitch." He gave the girl another light shove.

Sam continued, "Besides, you're terrified of planes. Everyone knows planes are safer than cars per mile of travel."

"Nerd," coughed Dean. Then, to the girls who had slowly fallen a few paces behind, he said, "Sam's real name's Samantha and he loves sleepovers where everyone braids each other's hair," he grinned.

His smirk faltered when Priya didn't smile back. Instead, she was busy checking a text she had just received. Looking at the screen, her cheeks drained of their pinkish hue to leave a mottled brown in its wake. Linda couldn't help but feel the girl would probably benefit from some decent foundation.

"Shit, I've got to make a call, you guys go on."

The boys nodded and continued on forward, Sam whacking his older brother on the arm.

Priya turned and started to walk back. Linda hesitated, her inborn curiosity getting the better of her. She turned round and traipsed after her.

Sam's voice came from the distance, filled with laughter. "Dean, I've  _seen_ you do it! You stand in front of the mirror and pretend you're Chuck Norris! I've  _seen_ it with my own eyes!" The voice faded away again.

When Linda caught up with Priya, she was in the middle of a conversation on her mobile phone. "I made sure she had plenty to eat and I even offered for her to come. She didn't want to." A pause as an angry voice replied. "She'll be fine! She's thirteen! You were leaving me alone in the house from eight!" The voice on the other side rose further, Priya turned at the sound of Linda's steps. She looked up at the girl and spoke quickly, "I've got to go ma, I'll call you later, bye." The old Samsung mobile was snapped shut.

Priya tucked the device into her pocket and shrugged. "Mums, eh?"

"I wouldn't know." It was the last thing Linda wanted to talk about.

"I'm sorry," whispered Priya.

Oh wonderful, now ape-girl was taking pity on her too. It was sickening the way everyone assumed she was some poor little thing who probably secretly cried over how much she missed her mother. It was sickening and it was true.

"You're really hairy for a girl, you know that?" Linda spat out, playing pass-the-parcel with her hurt.

She didn't know what she'd hoped for but it hadn't been the wan smile and the quiet comment of "Yeah, Einstein, I know."

Linda suddenly felt like crap.

"I didn't mean that, not really," she mumbled, staring at the bit of dried manure coating the grass in front of her.

"It's the truth, I get it," Priya shrugged, trying to keep her voice level as her eyes betrayed her battered pride.

"Hey, I know what I said was dickish. You don't need to make excuses for me," Linda snapped back. God, she really did feel like the dried piece of shit in front of her.

"If you knew, why did you say it?" The girl's voice was quiet.

"It's a long story."

"I've got time."

Linda sighed. They walked over to the edge of the field and perched upon the stone wall. Priya scrambled up first, lithe in her shorts, then offered a hand up to help Linda up, burdened by the dress.

"You won't understand, you really won't."

Priya swung her legs, letting the back of her trainers bounce off the wall and propel her legs forward again. Normally Linda would have criticised such blatant disrespect for shoes but those trainers looked like they were well past their use-by date anyway.

"That's a challenge I can't refuse. Try me."

She could tell her. It wasn't like her plans applied to Priya anyway. And God, she could do with someone to talk to in this hell hole. Letting out a deep breath, she spoke, "I need everyone to hate me."

The legs stopped swinging. "What? That's fuc-incredibly ridiculous."

"I said you wouldn't understand." Her brittle voice quavered with barely hidden anger.

"Sorry, sorry," Priya stared at her lap before continuing, "but why?"

"I've got it all planned. If Aunt Jane and her family hate me, they won't want me coming up here. I get to spend summers in London, with my friends."

"Surely it's not so bad up here?" asked Priya. "I mean, Sam and Dean are alright."

"You don't get it. Every year, there's a three day end-of-school party that I've never been able to go to. Do you know what it's like to go into school every September and have all your friends look at you with pity and tell you they missed you and it was a shame you couldn't come and then proceed to tell you what a fun time they had?" Linda said bitterly, struggling to glare at the girl sat next to her due to the unexpected moisture in her eyes. Damn. She hadn't realised how much this bothered her.

Priya stared at a lonely goat chewing on the grass in the field in front of them, her feet swinging again. "I can't really claim to know much about having massive friends groups, I'm not really a drinking and partying type. But I guess your situation must suck to you."

"Damn straight it sucks! I've been staring at my phone, waiting for a message from my friend telling me what they got up to, but 'til now? Nada." She threw the blasted device that couldn't give her the hollow happiness of one new text message onto the grass before promptly jumping off the wall to retrieve it again. Frustration can only be taken so far before it becomes stupidity.

Priya offered her hand and helped pull the younger girl back onto the uneven wall. "That explains why you've been checking your mobile so often."

"Yeah, that and I'm hoping for a call from my mum."

Where the heck had that come from? She sometimes wished she could just tape her mouth shut.

The swinging stopped. "I thought you said your mum was dead?"

"I never said that. Mum and Dad are divorced. I've not seen her since I was five."

Priya let out a low whistle. Linda was pleasantly surprised to see there was understanding but no pity in those coal dust eyes. "So do you miss her or do you just want to know her?"

"I'll go with option B, Chris Tarrant." Dammit, the Winchester boys and their TV references were starting to rub off on her.

"I'm sure you've thought of this already, but why not ask to go meet her at some point?"

"Dad won't even talk about her. I tried bringing her up twice before and those are the only two times I've seen my Dad get genuinely angry." She smoothed out her dress to calm her quivering hands at the memory of the quiet rage. "So I decided to get in contact with her by myself," her voice grew stronger, "I tried looking through dad's contact list but she'd been deleted. But he'd never bothered clearing away his old phone books, I found her number in there and I called it. She picked up and it was her, she hadn't changed her number. I don't know why, but it was really scary to talk to the woman I hadn't met in eleven years so I just put the phone down. Later, I sent a voicemail giving her my number and asking her to call me when she was free."

"How long ago was this?"

"A week ago."

Then, in a barely audible whisper, Linda said what she'd refused to admit even to herself. "I'm scared."

As her mental wall broke and all her fears of rejection flooded out and filled her mind, Priya shuffled a little closer, groaning as her weight fell on a snail, cracking its shell. She picked off the animal and dropped it onto the grass, letting the silence build.

Linda couldn't take it anymore. The tears started rolling down her cheeks as she was finally forced to face the fears she'd spent most of her life hiding from.

"People say I'm a bit like her, beautiful and elegant and sophisticated. But I don't want to be like her. I don't want to leave my kid without talking to her for eleven years. I don't want to marry someone I'm not in love with." Her words came out broken by sobs, "But the thing is, I don't even know what she's like. She might be really nice and it might be Dad who's never let us talk. She might really miss me and want me and oh God I just want to talk to her, spend time with her, get to spend Mothers' Day taking her to some restaurant she really likes. So what do I do? I try to be as annoying as possible so Dad'll let me spend time with her in my holidays, so he'll accept that his daughter isn't some perfect princess he's tried to convince himself I am, but really a selfish kid who wants a mum."

An arm dropped round her shoulder. She shrugged it off. Priya didn't seem to mind. "I'm not the best at talking about people's feelings and what's personal to them," she paused and grimaced, "but do you really think alienating your dad is the best way to go about things? He's been there for you. He thinks the world of you, heck, he's even willing to go on one week holidays with just you. I know at least one kid who'd give anything for that." Linda didn't quite know what to make of the way the girl's face fell at the end. "It isn't worth losing someone who cares about you over someone you don't even know."

"But you don't get it! He might be the reason Mum has never gotten in contact! Maybe she really wants to talk to me but can't because he won't let her," her voice had taken on a note of desperation and she knew it.

"Seriously? If you really think that, I'd say you don't know your dad at all," her face softened as she continued, "he's a lovely guy who gets on with everybody. Do you really think he'd stop your mum from talking to you if she'd wanted to?"

It was awful. She wanted nothing more than to cover her ears and scream to stop Priya's words from hitting home. Because they did hit home. They smashed home and knocked down the last wall she'd had built along the way. Because if what she said was true, if her dad really hadn't stopped her mum from getting in contact with her, then it meant only one thing.

Her mother wanted nothing to do with her.

She felt the jigsaw fall into place and her heart break into pieces simultaneously. The lack of a reply. Her father's anger at the woman who'd never loved her. The fact they'd never had any disagreement about her custody.

Priya must have noticed the realisation dawning on her face for she spoke softly, "I'm sorry."

"Forget it," snarled Linda, "what do you know about absent mothers anyway?"

Priya let out a long, breathy, laugh.

"What? Are you trying to say you know what it's like to have a mother that doesn't want you?" Linda jerked to the side and glared accusingly at Priya. The last thing she needed at that moment was all that 'I understand' bullshit.

Priya did her trademark shrug. "More than you'd ever imagine."

"Well your mother didn't leave you when you were a little kid and never look back, did she?" Linda struggled to keep the heat out of her voice, her sorrow having slowly turned into rage.

For a minute, no one spoke. Priya continued to stare at the goat while Linda felt her anger dissipate. Her scowl turned into a look of curiosity.

Finally, Priya broke the silence. "I sometimes wish she had." Her voice was quiet, speaking more to herself than to Linda. "Mum loved it when she had me. She used to take me everywhere and show me off to her friends. But the joys of parenthood wore off quickly. I was a real crier -the sort that's constantly ill- and as Dad worked all the time, Mum was the one burdened with it all."

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and stared at the blank screen before continuing. "Then came along Sonali, and she was perfect. She's sweet and polite and charming." Suddenly, as if remembering there was someone sat beside her, she jerked her head up and added quickly, "Don't get me wrong, my sister's one of my best friends and I'd give my life for her quicker than you can say antidisestablishmentarianism, we're just different, you know?

"I walk like a guy and I'm ugly as all fuck." A hint of a rueful smile played on her lips and Linda felt like crap about her earlier comment all over again. "But it's weird, I kind of like these things about me. I like that the only people who are genuinely nice to me are the ones who look at what a person's like rather than the outside. It's just a shame Mum doesn't agree." She quickly brushed the back of her hand over her eyes and kicked the wall. "You've not said a thing. I'm boring you, aren't I?"

"You're not, it's just- it's just strange to see you like this. You seem really confident and sure of yourself," said Linda, finding she had a grudging respect for the kid sat next to her.

"Yeah, well, it's an acquired trait." Her hand sneaked to her pocket again, resting over the rectangular lump. "Sometimes, I think she's too embarrassed to be seen in public with me. She laughs at my hirsutism in front of her friends, as if pointing out the elephant in the room will help things in some way. I don't let it bother me much, I really don't." she said, her voice a shade too earnest to be honest. "But I just decided early on that I'd make something of myself."

Linda couldn't help but feel pity for the girl's taut smile and wounded eyes. But pity would be the last thing she needed so she didn't let it show.

"Now it's become like a quest for me. I  _need_  to do well in school. I  _need_  to get somewhere in life. I  _need_ to be happy, if only to prove my mother wrong. Then again, I don't think she really cares much. We only really talk when we need something from each other or when she's asking after Sonali. I don't mind though, really. I've got Dad and he might be busy, but I know he really cares. He even took an hour out to help make the lassi with me." This time the smile was genuine.

Linda somehow found that was worse. An hour. She was here with her father for the whole bloody week and she spent most of it whining at him and the girl next to her was grateful for an  _hour_.

There was nothing one could say to that. "The lassi was really nice."

"You said it tasted like dog pee when you tried it," said Priya, her poker face was on.

"Yeah, well, that was when the whole 'get people to hate me' plan was still in action." Linda found she was blushing and staring at the tips of her shoes. The plan had been stupid stupid stupid. Her mum didn't want her and her friends didn't really care but worst of all, it had taken some weird girl she barely knew to get her to see it.

"Was?"

"Yeah, I'm closing the door on that one. The next plan's probably going to be about building bridges with Dad."

It was strange how good the thought made her feel. God forgive her for the cliché, but it felt like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. But then a troubling thought occurred to her.

"You're not going to tell anyone about what I've said right?"

"Of course not," she shook her head, then added quickly, "as long as you don't tell anyone about what I said, alright?"

"Nah, I won't. I'll let the world keep on believing in the great Priya- what's your last name?"

"Bhagat."

"-Bhagat who feels nothing. Ever." She swept her arm across in a grand flourish and a grin.

Priya hopped off the wall and glanced at her watch with a groan. "We should probably start heading back."

"One second." Linda pulled out her phone, jabbed in the password, and scrolled through her contacts. Settling on the one she wanted, or rather didn't want, she clicked on the options tabs and selected 'delete'. "Done."

"Got rid of your mum's number?"

Linda gave a small nod and started walking.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be back to updating every Wednesday again now. I hope you enjoyed the earlier updates. I promise we'll be back to Dean and Sam sharing brotherly moments from next Wednesday.
> 
> A little note about the English education system... Students sit exams called GCSEs when they are 16 (though some people end up taking some earlier) around some time in May/June and the results come out in August. The grades range from an A* to an E. The results the characters in this story get are based on the results of people I know (hence I know they are achievable), even if they seem a bit high. To be honest, GCSEs aren't too bad as exams go. They're pretty stressful, but with the right teaching and revision it's not too hard to get an A* (though of course there's an element of luck to it too).

The man parked the car, pulled his collar up, tilted his Stetson, and waited for the crowds. Within minutes the first students started trotting in, their parents galloping ahead of them.

Once upon a time he used to ride horses, now he just bet on them. But it seemed he'd been much better at the former than the latter. Watching his debts slowly rise and poverty take over had driven him to this plan. There were only so many days he could live off reduced price takeaway meals before he resorted to drastic measures.

His attempts via the social services had led to a dead end. No files seemed to exist. It was like the kid had vanished off the face of the Earth. Just when he was sure the trail had gone cold, he had seen him waiting for a lift. There had been someone else with him, he'd looked younger, though was nearly as tall. Both wore the same uniform, brown jumper with a silver logo.

Having been trapped in a long traffic jam, he couldn't do what he would have otherwise done and tailed him home. Instead, he opted to do a little digging. Taking a right instead of his usual left, he headed into the local town centre, to the school uniform shop.

It was easy from there. The shop assistants were tripping over themselves to help the poor, forgetful, father who knew which uniform he wanted but couldn't for the life of him remember the name of the school.

He pulled out the slip of paper he'd written the woman's words on.

_Moreton High._

A little bit of internet research had told him it was going to be easy to get access to the school today. He just had to wait for the crowds.

An hour later, the man slipped unnoticed amongst the hustle and bustle of eager parents trying to reach their children and the grade sheets they held in their hands. His nondescript appearance meant no one even noticed the parent that had never been to a celebration evening, sports day or parents' evening before.

Within fifteen minutes he was stood leaning against the hall wall, Stetson all but covering his eyes, coat collar hiding most of his face.

The boy, unmistakable with his grown out crew cut and bright green eyes, was stood just ten metres away from him. He was no longer all skin and bone, having become sinewy from the muscle he had put on. Familiar eyes stared nervously at the envelope before shaking hands opened it and the boy heel-clicked in delight. It was almost unnerving to see him so happy and healthy. A tendril of guilt started to curl around the man's stomach, but he banished it. He needed to bear in mind exactly what the kid had done.

Dean-

_Dean. The name feels weird on your tongue, doesn't it? The name matches the face and yet belongs to a very different kid compared to the boy in front of you._

-pulled out his mobile phone and frantically typed in a number.

"Ma'am! I didn't fail Geography! I got a B in it, sure, but I passed! Apart from that, I got an A in History and IT but A*s in everything else!" There was a pause as the boy flushed crimson at the praise he was receiving from the other end. "Thanks ma'am, could you pass the phone to Sam?" Another pause before a wide grin spread across Dean's face. "Sammy! Looks like your lummox of a brother did alright! Nah, it wasn't all that much effort, it was easy peasy Japanesey really." He stopped to listen to the other end, his shit-eating grin being replaced by mock anger, "I so totally wasn't revising 'til two in the morning! Looks like you took the brown acid, little brother. Sir? No, I wasn't talking about acid with him, I swear," the grin was back, "thanks sir, I'm glad you guys are happy. I'll be home in half an hour."

The voice had grown deeper, rougher. But what was really unsettling was the jollity present, the confidence with which he spoke. The man had always thought happiness would be an alien concept to that voice.

_And whose fault was that?_

That was a stupid thought. The boy had deserved everything he'd got, even begged for it on occasion. He'd taken so much and given so little, he wasn't worthy of the man's pity. He bit his lip and continued to watch the kid from a distance.

Putting away the mobile phone carefully, Dean walked over to a couple of teenagers stood a few metres away. The boy had curly blond hair and a mousy face that wore a large smile, a smile that was matched by the short Indian girl stood next to him. When Dean reached the pair, they swapped results sheets, Dean taking both of theirs while they pored over his.

"Congratulations Billy! Eight A*s, that's pretty darn impressive." Dean slid Mousy Boy's report to the back and let out a low whistle at Indian Girl's sheet. "Holy shit. You really are a bookworm, aren't you? That's a total of fifteen A*s now? Who the fuck did you bribe?"

The girl swatted his arm and took her sheet back, a small smile on her lips. "Well done arsehole, your grades are pretty awesome. I'm proud of you." She looked up. "And before I forget and he wriggles out of it, Billy's got some good news that he's trying to avoid sharing."

Mousy Boy smirked and said, "I was gonna tell you, I just liked watching you try to pry it out of me. Luke asked me out and we're going on a date tomorrow."

Dean laughed and threw an arm around the boy's shoulder. "Get in there," he said, with a wink.

Indian Girl rolled her eyes and muttered, "So you decided to quit staring at each other across the room every time you met and actually talk? Finally." She wrapped her friend in a tight hug. "I'm really happy for you. However, tell Luke that Priya says to not mess with her friend. If he does, he might find his butt's accidentally been set on fire."

"I swear you're trying to break us up before we've even gotten together," huffed Mousy Boy. "Oh by the way, Mohammad made it pretty clear I was to tell you he got fifteen A*s and he didn't revise  _at all._ "

The trio looked at each other, their eyes dancing as their cheeks twitched. Simultaneously, they all burst into loud laughter.

Once again, it was disquieting to watch the silent weeper throw his head back in mirth, laugh lines having taken the place of tear tracks. So much work had been undone.

Mousy Boy's mobile buzzed and he reeled off his grades to his parents.

Dean's eyes flitted around the room, settling on the figure in the long, black, coat with the pulled up collar. The green eyes narrowed, recognition beginning to fill the pupils, when the Mousy Boy tapped his shoulder, bringing his attention back to the group. The man breathed a deep sigh of relief as he pulled the Stetson down further and changed position.

"So have you told your parents yet?"

"Yeah, though I didn't expect them to keep saying they were proud of me. It was kind of weird."

"You liked it," stated Priya.

Dean just gave a shrug. The boy may have grown but his shoulders still held the same innocence and vulnerability that always sold so well. The boy was a jackpot waiting to be claimed.

"Have you told yours?" he asked.

Priya gave a rueful smile. "Dad was really happy but he had to go see to a patient so we didn't really get to talk. Mum didn't care. She just told me to make sure Sonali ate lunch on time."

Dean nodded and draped his right arm around the girl in a comforting hug, letting his shoulders droop back into position. That wasn't how he'd remembered the boy. The whore had always kept his shoulders pushed back so as to not stretch the lacerated skin on his back.

_(Who's to blame?)_

_Don't go there. Don't think about that. You need the money, just bear that in mind. You owe a heck of a lot, don't forget that._

_(But who's to blame?)_

"Anyway," said Priya, "it doesn't matter. Are you guys both alright to come to my party? I think I might die if only Mum's friends' kids are there. I need you guys to keep me sane."

Billy nodded. "You'd be nothing without me, Shortie, you know it. But Jess can't make it, something about Girl Scouts and camping, I tuned out after that."

Priya rolled her eyes and muttered "arsehole" before turning to look at the green-eyed boy who was Dean and yet not quite at the same time. "You and Sam are both coming, right?"

"The Winchesters were really nice to me about it. I thought they'd make me earn the privilege but they just said I should go and enjoy mys-" He stopped when he realised the odd looks he was getting from both friends. "Uh, yeah, we're coming," he coughed out.

So the boy hadn't changed completely then. There were bits of the old Dean left. Nonetheless he'd need breaking in again. That could potentially pose a problem.

Checking his watch, the boy smacked his forehead with his palm, "I said I'd be home in half an hour. I better set off or else Mu-Mrs Winchester will have my head on a plate," he finished quickly, blushing at the moniker that had nearly slipped out.

And he should. The boy had no shame. He'd make sure he paid for that. Anger boiled up at the thought of him ever using that phrase for anyone else again, but he quelled it. All in good time. For now he followed the boy to the hall door, sticking by the walls and remaining in the shadows, always staying a good twenty metres behind.

Hand about to push the door open, Dean turned around again and stared straight at him. Recognition started blooming once again in those moss-green eyes.

_Shit._

Doing the only thing he could think to do, he grabbed a child beside him and started enquiring about her results. The boy shook his head and walked out of the hall.

Relief flooded through him for the second time that day. Pushing aside the confused girl, he marched to the door and slid out unnoticed behind a portly man and his similarly portly son. Thank God for genetics.

But there was no God to thank. He knew that. He learnt that the day happiness had left his life.

He'd make sure Dean learnt that too.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains a spoiler for Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and a hint of a spoiler for Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

Dean turned off the shower but stayed in the cubicle, reluctant to let the heat dissipate by opening the door.

Heat.

Dean had a love-hate relationship with heat. The stuffy, claustrophobic heat of summer nights in the hall closet. The burning heat of twenty lashes, all piled on top of each other. The agonising heat of a radiator through metal handcuffs.

But then there was heat like this. Warm showers. Thick blankets. The Impala bonnet after a long drive.

The shower slowly cooled, leading to the formation of goosepimples along his arms. Priya had been explaining their evolutionary benefit a couple of weeks ago; how they made the hairs stand up and form an insulating layer, keeping the body (albeit ineffectively) warmer. Stupid Bookworm knew everything.

Stupid Bookworm and stupid Sam and stupid sir and stupid ma'am. They were all such idiots. What were they thinking, taking someone like Dean into their lives and caring about him? What did they know of the Heathcliff they were harbouring?

Those eyes.

Those eyes, lightning green, cold and hard. Those eyes he'd hoped to never see again. They didn't belong in a world of GCSE grades and bright eyed brothers.

Those eyes knew Dean for the black stain he was.

Of course, he knew he was making it up. There was no way the man was who he thought he was. Besides, he'd been busy talking to that girl with a lot of acne and a chronic case of giggling about her grades, so he was probably her dad or something.

Shaking his head, he opened the shower door and ran the towel over his torso, noting the change from skin and bone to wiry muscle; the results of a combination of regular food and his daily attempts to emulate the martial arts maestros. He seemed to have had a growth spurt too, having nearly caught up to his giant of a brother. But the criss-cross of white scars bore testament to the fact he could change his name, his school, his family, but his past remained the same.

Dean paused before sliding into his new pyjamas, enjoying the feel of the fresh cotton against his fingertips. Ma'am had been yelling at Dean to 'put your goddamn bed sheet in the wash before you get a rash' and 'why do I always see the same trousers and shirts coming out every week? This one's even got a hole in it!' before Dean had come over and shown her that they were the only four shirts and trousers he owned. Her face had gone from annoyed to sorry in less than a second and before he knew it, he was being bundled into the baby and being driven to the nearest department store.

After an hour of battling with ma'am about how he really did prefer generic, no brand jeans, and yes, while he liked Batman, he did not need it on his t-shirts, and  _definitely_  not on his boxers, they made it to the till without having killed each other. It was then that she decided Dean needed some pyjamas, leaving Dean standing awkwardly with a pile of clothes in his hand, smiling at a pretty brunette who seemed eager to smile back.

Dean was just about to initiate a conversation when ma'am returned and started bustling them towards the counter to 'get this shopping crap done with'. Breaking eye contact, Dean left the store with two bags in his hands and the knowledge that girls were surprisingly easy to flirt with as long as honesty was never on the cards.

No one really looked at a whore twice.

Dean pulled on the dark blue bottoms and wondered if he'd ever be able to be truly honest with anyone. Probably not.

But it didn't matter. What mattered was that Sam was currently on Dean's bed, finishing all the popcorn before the movie had even started. Sam was determined to show Dean the wonders of the magical world by persuading (coercing, if one was honest) him to watch a Harry Potter movie a night until they had completed all eight. They were up to the fifth one and Dean still wasn't really seeing the appeal apart from the fact that Emma Watson chick was hot and Voldemort had no nose. Dean had suggested The Shining for their movie nights upon Billy's recommendation, but Mr Winchester had banned it with mutterings of 'didn't sleep properly for a month' and 'still scared of axes' so Harry Potter it was.

As expected, Dean walked into the room to find Sam sprawled over his bed ( _his_  bed! That still felt so good to think), three quarters of the way through the bowl of popcorn as the Warner Brothers logo came up on Sam's laptop.

"Scoot over jerkface, I'm older which means I need more room," said Dean, as he slid under the covers, trying to roll Sam's body over. "You better not have eaten the liquorice without me."

Sam shoved back at Dean, not willing to lose his prime position. "No, you move! I'm taller! And besides, why would I eat the liquorice? It tastes of goats' turds."

"And how the hell would you know? Little Sammy been eating goat shit?"

Sam suppressed a smile and let the battle drop. "Shut up, it's getting to the good bit!"

"It's the title credits!"

"Yeah, well, they're good!"

They grumbled and jiggled and poked each other into a comfortable silence, with only the sounds of munching and that tinkly Harry Potter music (he could almost hear Sam hissing an annoyed ' _Hedwig's Theme'_  in his head, the Dumbledork) to be heard.

The lightning green of the Killing Curse flashed up onscreen. Panic rose up within Dean so quickly, he felt like he might throw up.

_Super. You've got a case of morning sickness now? Get a grip, Dean._

The light vanished, replaced by a dead Cedric Diggory. The feeling of drowning while completely dry refused to leave.

"Sam," said Dean, urgently shaking the kid's arm.

"What? You can't be scared yet, it's not even got to the scary bit, the scary bit's when Bellatrix kills-"

"Sam, listen to me," Dean jerked Sam's arm, letting go when he caught the mild look of pain that flitted across his features. "Sorry, but listen to me, Sam. If I say Poughkeepsie, you drop whatever you're doing and run, you got me?"

_Poughkeepsie? Really?_

_I dunno, I think they said it on Friends recently._

_Still, we need a word we won't use often. Poughkeepsie will do. Sammy needs to be safe._

"Wha-why? What's gonna happen? It's just a film, Dean, none of that stuff's real, you know-"

"Forget about the movie!" Dean heard his voice rise and tried his best to quell some of the fear. "I mean, I like it and everything, but this is important. If I say Poughkeepsie, you get the hell out of wherever you are, okay? You get yourself to safety."

"Uh, okay then. Poughkeepsie, got it. But are you okay, Dean? We don't have to continue if you don't want to…" Sam trailed off, badly hidden longing in his eyes.

"What, and miss finding out who Bellatrix kills? Not a chance." Dean forced a grin and ruffled Sam's hair, who soon batted his hand away.

"You'll probably cry, you really like that character," Sam smirked.

They settled down once again and their heads sank lower and lower as the film went on. Through drooping eyes, Dean mumbled "Harry should hunt that little bitch down" as that vicious explosion of pink called Umbridge appeared once again. The only response was a quiet snore.

Dean slid out of the bed and wrapped the blanket around Sam (it might be the middle of August, but there was no need for the kid to catch a cold), before stopping the DVD and returning it to its box.

_Things have its place and you have yours. Don't you forget that._

Wise words. Wise words from a malicious woman with a nasal voice.

He watched Sam's chest rise and fall with his even breathing. Usually when Sam didn't manage to keep up his love affair with the black-haired boy and his snowy owl and fell asleep, Dean just rolled him over and went to bed next to him.

But not today. His place wasn't under warm covers on a comfortable bed next to Sam. His place had always been somewhere else.

Lying down on the floor with his jacket as a pillow, Dean squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in the musty smell of the carpet.

_Like one ever forgets their place._

He squeezed tighter, trying to think about potions and photo albums. The photos moved, how cool was that? He had a photo once, of a woman in a white dress and a smile that made the sun look gloomy. A smile that made another man's eyes light up with pure adoration. Eyes that soon became the reason Dean didn't stop wetting the bed (or rather, floor) until he was seven. Eyes that never let him forget what he was…

_The eyes are looking at him from the picture. Because the picture still exists now. The picture hasn't been discovered yet, hidden under a pair of shoes in the hall closet, and torn to shreds in a drunken rage._

_But he never looks at the picture for his eyes. He looks at it for her megawatt smile._

_He doesn't know what 'megawatt' means yet, but he knows he will someday._

_But there are some things he'll never know. So he makes these things up. In his head, his mum smells like Play-Doh and wears the bead necklace Dean made in school for her on Mothers' Day a couple of years ago. In his head, she laughs at all of his jokes and likes playing hide-and-seek (Dean thinks he'd be really good at this game if he ever had someone to play it with, seen as he's found all the small spots he can squeeze himself into if his father comes home hammered) and listens to his stories and even lets him have the food that's not out of date. In his head, the golden haired woman loves the same shade of blue as he does and they often go to the park together and she never, ever, hits him, even when he's been a 'little bastard' and 'fucked up'._

_In his head, he is loved._

_He wants to think about the mummy in his head, about the really pretty picture, but try as he might, he can't recall the gleaming teeth and slight dimples. His eyes blur as tears form and another wave of hot, raw, pain shoots up his arm._

_It was supposed to be a quick trip down to the grocery store and the handcuffs were just to make sure he didn't get into trouble while his father was away. The radiator wasn't supposed to be on and the trip wasn't supposed to take goddamn hours._

_Father had better get back soon, he can't take much longer and his toes just can't reach the other end to turn the heat off. He can see the knob taunting him, sat smugly on '4' when all he has to do is to get it down to '2' to make it bearable._

_His toes stubbornly refuse to grow a couple of extra inches and just reach goddammit. Goddammit, goddammit, goddammit, it_ hurts. _It makes him think of his last birthday, the feel of the dog chain as it seemed to keep landing on him forever. He cried and cried and the only response he got was a simple 'she'd be here if it wasn't for you'._

_He cannot help but think it true as the two metal rings of the handcuffs dig into his left wrist. The pain seems to be moving from red to white to an odd sort of bluey-yellow that defies description because all he wants is for someone to uncuff or at least knock him out._

_Just as he starts to smell the burning flesh and his vision begins to blur, the door bursts open and there he is. His saviour._

_The cold green eyes flicker between a grimace and a sneer before his nose catches up and he rushes forward with the keys. The man hesitates, fearing to touch what Dean's been in contact with for what feels like hours. Dean really wants to say 'about fucking time' in a flippant tone that'll hide the onslaught of fear and pain and relief he's feeling but he doesn't use words like that yet, so he doesn't._

_The lock clicks open but the metal has to be peeled off his wrist, leaving behind bleeding, burning, flesh. The pain doesn't leave, doesn't even numb, it'll take weeks for it to fade. But that doesn't matter. That doesn't matter because his father's here. His father cared enough to save him and is currently rocking him, muttering 'sorry' over and over again._

_Maybe he is sorry. Maybe this'll be the end. Maybe now they can be like a real family, go to football games and share Christmas presents and everything. Maybe he can go into school with his head held high because, this year, his father came to his parents' evening and was proud of how well he was doing in maths._

_Maybe cows will fly. Or is it pigs? People tend to say one of them but he's not sure which. He doesn't talk enough to other people to know, really._

_He does know that nothing ever changes. Nothing he will ever do will change the fact his father would much rather he had died than his mother. Nothing will stop the man from taking to the bottle when he's feeling especially lonely and laying into the evidence left behind by her demise._

_But it's okay, because he's alive and someone's holding him and rocking him and for two minutes he can forget that this is the same person who chained him up in the first place and he can just be his saviour in his eyes._

_There's one fear that refuses to go away, one fear that he knows he must address or he's going to be so scared whenever the handcuffs come out he's not going to be able to keep the tears at bay._

_His saviour might not always get there in time._


	22. Chapter 22

Sam finished off his fruit smoothie as he watched Dean click his heels to some 80s song by Foreigner while a mullet-haired guy in a biker jacket named Ash laughed along. The hall they were in was a lavish, artfully decorated conference hall that was better suited for a small wedding than a sweet sixteen.

_You really should have worn a suit._

Sam glanced down at his jeans and shirt again, blushing as he felt the ire of Mrs Bhagat being pointed in his direction once again. The room had slowly divided into two factions: the majority of the hall was filled with the offspring of Mrs Bhagat's acquaintances, trying to sip aperitifs without spilling them on their suits as they talked amongst themselves, while a corner contained a handful of teens in jeans and leather jackets, singing and dancing along to songs on Billy's iPod. Sam stood at the edge of the group, catching snippets of both Nazareth and the clicking of Mrs Bhagat's heels as she talked to the parents of the latest arrivals

Priya sauntered around the room, saying a couple of lines to each of the guests before inevitably ending up in the corner with her friends from school, singing along passionately to the chorus of 'Hair of the Dog'.

"Priya, could you come here for a second, dear?" Mrs Bhagat was stood in the doorway with some parents that looked vaguely familiar.

Priya tore herself away from the group and headed towards the entrance, but not before stopping by Sam and pressing a can of Coke to his hands with a grin and a comment of 'you're too healthy for a twelve year old, you should be bouncing off walls'.

Sam barely managed to say 'thanks' before a sharper call of her name arrived and she hurried towards the door. Sam opened the can carefully, not trusting Priya to not have shaken it earlier, and wished once again that Jess had been able to come.

Not that he really wanted her there or anything.

_Stupid girl scouts and their stupid camping trips._

No, it wasn't that (it really  _wasn't_ ), it was just that she was funny and nice and at least she'd have been his age. Dean had called him over a couple of times to join their group and had even offered to stay with him for the whole night, but Sam had shoved him back towards the corner with cries of 'go have fun, I'm fine here'. It was rare to see Dean behaving like the sixteen year old kid he was and not the broken boy Sam had found curled up on the floor that morning.

It was then that Sam knew he couldn't fall asleep in Dean's room again. He couldn't wake up again to his brother shivering on the ground, tear tracks leading from his eyes to the carpet. Of course, Sam had tried his damnedest to get it through his thick skull that he ought to have just woke him up and told him to shuffle over or get back to his own bed if there wasn't enough room, but trying to explain things to Dean often felt like trying to put a nail in the wall with your fingers.

_"I don't want to be any trouble. Look, we both got a good night's sleep and neither of us lost any limbs so no harm done, eh? I just don't want to be any trouble."_

That was all Dean had to say after hearing Sam's pleas for him to just be mean for once, for God's sake! Sam had never really understood the phrase 'like trying to teach an old dog new tricks' before, but he got it now. Dean was ancient in dog years and selfishness was just too new a trick.

From the door, Sam could hear Mrs Bhagat's voice as she talked to the vaguely familiar parents with her arm draped around her daughter's stiff shoulders, "Oh it's just a small affair, Priya suggested it and I didn't have the heart to deny her, what with her excellent exam results-" There was a pause as she listened, before replying, "Yes. Fifteen A*s, we're very proud of her, my little angel."

Huh. Priya had wanted this party? That didn't sound like her at all. From what Sam had gathered, she'd probably have preferred to spend her birthday with a couple of friends climbing up trees or something (after she had scaled a beech at this year's picnic with startling expertise, Dad had claimed that she was 'evidence that we shared ancestors with chimpanzees'). But then again, why would her mum lie? And her mum sounded really cheerful while saying it, no one ever sounds cheerful while lying. That'd just be weird.

At this point, Priya lifted her mother's arm off her and turned back into the hall, her expression battling between hurt and anger. She turned further to meet Sam's gaze and rolled her eyes. 'Mums' she mouthed, before coming to join him.

A bitter smile came across her face. "I hope you're enjoying this party I suggested, try not to drown in the suits," she said, before looking down at the Sprite can in her hand and muttering, "She never told  _me_  she was proud of me." Looking up, she grinned and asked Sam if he was bored of the six week long holiday yet and was excited for school.

"Yeah, I've been missing a few of my friends and teachers, though holidays are more fun with Dean around now. I've been making him watch all the Harry Potter films. How about you?"

"I bet he secretly loves them, the dork. And as for me, I found out on results day that I have Mrs Bowen for Chemistry for another two years." Seeing Sam's look of confusion, she added, "She's the one that keeps putting up that graph of hare populations every lesson, then yelling 'They're breeding like rabbits!' Every. Freaking. Lesson. I kid you not-"

Both turned to the sound of Mrs Bhagat calling Priya once again.

"I'm sorry, I'll be back in a second." Priya walked off towards the door once again, squares of silver from the disco ball glinting on her navy blue dress. As footsteps receded in one direction, he heard the squeak of wet walking boots in the other. Dean walked up to him and followed his gaze down to his shoes.

"Blame Remy, he spilt his lemonade while trying to moonwalk. I'll wash them in the sink when I get home." Dean started to lift his eyes but stopped on Priya standing at the door. His eyebrows rose a fraction and a light smile tugged at his lips.

"The dress suits her, doesn't it?" said Sam. He couldn't help but grin a little at the look of admiration spreading across Dean's face. Try as he might, his brother was what Miss Littler called 'an open book'.

"Uh huh," he paused, "wait, what? I dunno, I know jack all about clothes," he huffed. Sam's smirk grew wider.

Until it completely disappeared.

Blocking the view of Priya were two faces both Sam and Dean had hoped they'd never see again.

* * *

Priya started on another round of the hall, face blushing as she recalled the look of barely hidden disapproval on Mrs Pyper's face as her mother described how much she had wanted- no,  _demanded-_  this party.

Then again, what did it matter? Priya had disapproved of the laser hair removal vouchers Mrs Pyper had given her last Christmas so maybe they were even.

Turning back to spend an obligatory five minutes with the latest arrivals, Priya was surprised to see they were already busy in a conversation with the Winchester boys.

Except, it didn't seem like a very comfortable conversation.

Priya walked over and overheard Kate saying she could do with a drink.

"I'll get one for you, what would you like?" she asked.

Kate turned to Priya and gave her a smile that was all teeth and no eyes. "Oh don't worry, Dean was just about to get me one," she turned to a decidedly sullen Dean, "weren't you?"

Dean started to walk towards the long row of drinks at the side of the room when Sam grabbed hold of his shirt and jerked him back. "Go get your own drink," Sam did his best to sound menacing, "Dean's not going anywhere."

Max started tugging at Kate's arm while she tried to regain her faltering Pan Am smile. Similarly, Dean was trying to pry Sam's fingers from his shirt, muttering 'Sammy, please' and 'just a drink' under his breath.

_What the fuck is going on here?_

"It's okay, I'll get the drink, Dean can stay here," said Priya, trying to reduce the mountain back to the molehill it really was. This was exactly why she hated social events like this. Everyone seemed to be out to make a big deal out of nothing.

Except this wasn't the usual situation. Sam wasn't the sort to make a fuss without reason. And why did Dean look so damn  _frozen_  in front of the Pypers?

_I repeat, what the holyfuckshitbugger is happening here? If any of my guests upset any of hers, Mum will tear me a new one._

The situation didn't get any better with Kate's next comment.

"It's fine, Priya, I'm just asking Dean to do his job."

Priya looked around to see the tense looks on Max and Dean's faces, Sam's hands had left Dean's shirt and were slowly balling up into fists, and Kate continued to smile like the world's food supply depended on her keeping her teeth showing.

"Wai- what? What job?"

"He's here as a waiter, right?" Seeing that the look of confusion hadn't gone from Priya's face, she continued, "You don't mean to tell me that he's here as a guest, do you?"

Priya let out a laugh as fake as Kate's smile. "He's a guest, yes, he's a friend from schoo-"

The sentence was left hanging as Kate fixed a steely glare on Dean and muttered, "I'm waiting." Dean seemed to bite back a sigh before heading towards the drinks counter before Sam could stop him.

Okay, now Priya was pissed.

"Look, I just told you he's not here to wait on you, he's a guest."

"And what made you invite a whore like him to your party anyway?"

Sam started blinking back tears as he whispered, "Quit calling my brother names, you vulture."

"It isn't name-calling if it's true, idiot."

"Kate, I appreciate you might not approve of him, but please don't insult my guests." Anyone who knew Priya knew that you backed off when she used  _that_  voice. You backed off that very instant.

Dean came back with two drinks and handed them to the Pyper siblings.

"Thank you," said Max, before renewing his efforts to tug the bitch away.

"So, Dean," said Kate, between sips of the drink, "you've not told them, have you?"

Dean stared at the muddied tips of his boots as the tips of his ears blushed pink, before looking up at Kate, clear pleading in those bright, tear-stung eyes. Priya found it physically hurt to see her friend look so broken.

Just as the stilettoed snake was about to speak, a young man in a grey doublet (Priya had only met him once before but she was pretty sure he was called Tom) tapped her on the back and started to enquire about her parents. The three of them walked off towards the girl Tom (she was really pretty sure that was the name) had been stood with (she wasn't even going to try and guess her name). Dean watched them go before turning to Sam and Priya, blinking twice and rolling his eyes at their badly-hidden curiosity.

"I think she just meant the fact I was Mr Universe three years in a row," he winked and made an attempt at a grin. Both Sam and Priya looked unimpressed.

Dean coughed and walked off to join in the chorus of 'American Pie' –which seemed to be spreading to the other guests too- and Priya was called once again by her mother, this time to check all the food was ready, leaving Sam to glare at the Pyper siblings.

The evening proceeded with the usual exchange of gifts and dull pleasantries, much like Sonali's birthdays usually did.

_God, how does her jaw not ache from smiling so much?_

She had to give it to her, her sister was far better at this whole 'socialising' gig. Even though she'd never admit it, she admired her ability to perfectly handle the pressures of social interaction without becoming an unbearable, obnoxious little brat. Of course, she was babied and had nothing like the amount of responsibility Priya had had at her age, the younger ones never do, but all in all, she was growing up to be a fine young woman who Priya was pretty damn proud of.

Not that  _any_  of this was ever reaching her ears. She could almost hear the barely teenage voice groaning, calling her a 'sopfest'. Some things just weren't made for sharing.

On the other hand, some thoughts were in dire need of sharing, whether the person would admit it or not.

Dean stood, a shell of the young man he'd been half an hour ago, his lips mouthing along to 'Fire of Unknown Origin' while his mind wandered elsewhere. Gone was the kid that had been heel-clicking and making bad puns, instead there was a haunted boy left staring into space with scarily vacant green eyes.

Priya walked over. "Dean?"

The lack of a reply prompted her to be blunter. "You okay, Freckles?"

"What? Uh, yeah, sure, fine." There was something that was probably meant to resemble a smile but too soon his eyes drifted off again, before returning to hit her with an annoyed glare that couldn't quite hide his amusement, "How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that, Bookworm? You can barely see 'em!"

"Yeah, okay, sure." Priya paused, then grinned, "Have you started naming them yet?"

"Don't worry, I'll name one 'asshole' after you."

"I'm charmed, I assure you, dickhead," replied Priya, glad to elicit a small smile. The smile quickly disappeared (as did that weird feeling she got in her stomach every time he did one of his dorky grins, the one that had her feeling happy and sad at the same time) as his eyes met Max's, stoicism taking over his face once again.

_Seriously, I clearly didn't get the memo about whatever train wreck happened here._

"You want to talk about what happened with Kate and Max there? Have you met them before? And what did she mean about us not knowing?" Once she got going, it seemed the questions didn't want to stop.

"Whoa, lay off with the third degree. And no, sort of, and I don't have a fucking clue." Dean spat out the swear like an eggshell in an omelette and glared at his shoes, before sighing, "Look Priya, I get you're just trying to be a good friend and all that, but trust me, I don't need that. I don't even want that, I just want you to leave me alone. Quit nosing around where you're not wanted."

It'd be a lie to say the words didn't cut. Like every time her mother told her to stop eating so much and start trying to look respectable, every time her father admitted he'd not be able to attend her prize giving ceremonies, every time her sister gave a tiny grimace of embarrassment when she appeared with her in public, this too was buried away deep in the recesses of her mind for late at night when she could bring them out without her tears being seen.

Her voice broke as she spoke. "I'm sorry I asked."

She turned away and walked towards Billy and Remy, barely catching a glimpse of Dean's face crumpling with guilt as she left.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another early update seen as I'm on holiday and want to avoid doing real work. The next update will probably be Friday and then it'll be back to Wednesdays again.

He was going to do it.

And soon.

He was.

He  _was._

Okay maybe he'd wait a bit.

The boy,  _Dean_ , was working his way through the cake Priya had dumped on his place (and the pieces of fruit that Sam had added with a stern 'It's good for you', much to Dean's disgust). Max turned to see Kate shudder as they both watched another spoonful of food being shovelled in before the last one had been swallowed.

_I don't remember ever seeing him eat so freely._

He could feel his wellspring of unwanted memories opening and tried his best to dam it in time.

_Peering round the utility room door to see if the freak had taken the bait and eaten the sandwich he'd left on the couch. Running to tell his father when he saw it had._

He wasn't going to think about it.

_Walking into the kitchen to see the bastard licking cake crumbs off bowls during Kate's after-prom party. Shutting the door and turning the key, then proceeding to punch him in the stomach repeatedly until he was retching, strings of spittle tainted with flecks of brown draining down the plughole._

He wasn't _._

 _Staring awkwardly at his roast turkey and Brussels sprouts, knowing those hungry green eyes are following his fork on its journey from the plate to his mouth every time,_ feeling _the boy's Adam's apple bob as he swallows down spit. Blushing as he hears his father snap his fingers and order the boy to stop lazing around and refill his glass of port. Wondering if it was anything more than happy coincidence that he was the one sat down with his family, enjoying Christmas, and not the boy stood leaning against the kitchen doorway._

Shit, too late.

_Looking at Dean's bruised, blissful face as he swallows down cold soup that Max would later say he ate. It will lead to Dean being torn a new one by his mother for 'taking food from my boy's mouth' the next day, but Dean will come to him and whisper 'thank you' anyway. Guilt washing over him at his odd look of both fear and gratitude. Neither should be there. It's just food and he's just a fucking boy. He should be complaining about how cold and lumpy it is, how it's not enough to fill four days of hunger, how it's too little too late from a boy who has hurt and manipulated him at nearly every opportunity he's had. But no, Dean doesn't complain. He just takes it, and he deals with it, and he thanks you afterwards._

_Sometimes all Max wants to do is punch him._

To say Max had merely been surprised when he'd caught sight of Dean here would have been quite the understatement. The smorgasbord of emotions he had felt had unfortunately been dominated by anger. It wasn't fair. Dean was smarter than him, funnier, stronger, and braver. It was only right that Max should have the privilege of being the one who was allowed to attend parties like this one, where the guests wore suits and the food could barely be pronounced. What was the whore doing here? Who said he was allowed to be in such high company, looking happy and healthy and loved? Who the fuck gave him that right?

 _Who the fuck gave_ you _the right to decide he was worth less than you?_

The boy had stood there, jaw clenching, eyes darting between the pair of them, as her sister started to ask Sam whether the bastard was here to steal food. Sam had looked befuddled, before looking up at his brother and slowly the look turned into rage.

Max could remember wondering what Sam knew about Dean's past as he heard that that squeaky voice, on the verge of breaking, telling his sister to leave them alone. Did Sam know what kind of crap Dean had to eat? Had he ever seen the mosaic of red welts and white scars that decorated Dean's back?

Either way, the kid was getting angry and he needed to get Kate away before her runaway mouth got them killed by the mini redwood.

He had suggested getting drinks, at which Kate had barked at Dean to get them two.

_Shit, did we always talk to him like that?_

Priya had then joined them, the only change to her face since he'd last seen her at Kate's party being a couple of spots on her right cheek. Someone really needed to teach that girl about the miracle of cosmetic products.

The tension became palpable as Priya kept offering to get them drinks while Kate insisted on humiliating Dean, leading to fake smiles and barely masked anger on both sides. Max started tugging more insistently on Kate's arm, acutely embarrassed at his usually polite and charming sister's behaviour.

Then Kate had threatened to tell.

Max felt his stomach drop as he watched fear pool into those vivid, green eyes, those eyes that were beseeching his sister much like they'd silently beg him to not tell Dad whenever they came home with report cards and his was better than Max's. He remembered the way they'd go dead the moment his father was told, the way they'd stay dead until the bite of the belt strap brought some life back.

That was exactly what was about to happen the moment Kate shattered the world Dean had created for himself with these people. Max needed to get her to stop, owed it to Dean for all the awful crap he'd put him through, owed it to him for never exacting any sort of revenge.

Just as she was about to speak, Harvey came over to enquire about their mother's back pain. Max had never been so happy to see him in all his life. A family friend since before the dinosaurs, Max had always felt nothing but jealousy at the sight of the young man. Currently studying PPE at Oxford, he was the paragon of a good son to Max's father, with barely a week going by when he wasn't compared to the handsome, confident young man stood with them. Max sometimes wished he'd just move to Australia or something.

But today, the green monster was nowhere to be seen and instead there was just relief as Kate had immediately started to talk to him, trying hard not to let her blatant crush be too obvious. Max had slowly steered the group towards Chloe, Harvey's cousin. All Max knew about her was that she really liked biochemistry and knitting, but she was stationed conveniently far enough from the Winchester brothers for there to be a minimal chance of Kate resuming her conversation.

Max looked down at the remnants of cake that were stuck to the sides of his bowl and wondered if he'd really beaten up a kid for eating such stupidly insignificant things. If that's what it took to please his father, was that approval even worth its weight in piss?

Shame rippled through the boy. He shouldn't have accepted that drink. He should have stood up to Kate, told her to back off like Sam had. He should have grown a pair of balls and done what he knew was right.

_Shoulda woulda coulda, Max._

There was still time. The guests had mostly finished eating and were milling around again, the room once again splitting into Priya's friends from school and those invited by Mrs Bhagat. Kate was busy laughing at Harvey's inane jokes and Sam was currently conversing with some mullet-haired biker guy, which meant neither he nor Dean had company.

_It's now or never._

_(I aint gonna live forever)_

Stopping his head from continuing the Bon Jovi song, he sidled along to the table Dean was working at. He was quietly gathering up the used dessert bowls and glasses, much like he would after any party the Pypers had hosted in the two years Dean had spent with them.

Awkwardly, Max coughed.

Dean looked up and Max watched his defenses spring up like a jack-in-the box. "What do you want?"

Fuck it, he wasn't going to do it.

Max turned away and walked over to the drinks table, picked up a flute of champagne, and downed it, feeling the bubbles fizz at the base of his stomach. Why was this so damn hard? How easily had this word slipped from Dean's mouth on so many occasions?

_A repetition of the word in the same cold, monotonous rasp each time the leather lands, apologising for a better report card. The lack of sincerity driving Max to hit harder._

_A gruff, forced, apology for taking too long on the laptop for the research project in history. Handing the device back, having wiped it down for smudgy fingerprints._

_The last time he said the phrase. A quiet, heart-breaking, litany of 'I'm sorry's coming from the kneeling boy as he tries to gather the pieces from the smashed figurine while Mother approaches. A sharp edge slicing open part of his palm and the blood smearing onto the translucent pieces. Green eyes dart down and back up again, barely hiding a wince, and the mantra of apologies starts up again with renewed vigour._

He could do this.

Buoyed by his poison of choice, he set down the glassware and strode once again towards the diligent worker. Dean had put away the bowls and was now wiping down the table with a washcloth. Looking up, Max saw Priya had spotted what Dean was doing and was marching (or as close as she could get, it was clear she wasn't used to heels) towards them with her arms crossed.

"Give it here, you don't have to clean up. Go join the others and make sure Billy's still able to stand by the end of the night." Without waiting for an answer, she snatched the cloth from Dean's hand and started wiping with far more force than was required.

Dean's jaw clenched as he swallowed. "Look, Priya, I'm so-"

"I don't want to talk to you, Dean," she interjected, "lest I interfere where I'm not wanted." With that, she went off to rinse out the cloth.

Dean turned around and started to walk off when Max grabbed his arm and spun him round.

"Whoa, what the fuck?" The anger was clear on his face, but it couldn't mask the tinge of fear that crept in as he looked down at the hand grabbing his arm and then back up into his eyes.

Max released him and started to speak before he lost his nerve. "I know this can't take back all the shit that's happened to you," he paused, watching as the anger abated into confusion, "but I'm sorry."

Dean cocked his head. "What are you on about?"

"I'm sorry for everything. We adopted you, you were meant to become part of the family, and all we did was make you feel like shit." His voice rose about half an octave as he felt guilt and desperation set in. "We never used your name, we hit you whenever we'd had a bad day, we barely even fed you for fuck's sake!"

Dean shrugged and let his shoulders slump down lower than they were before. "You guys were the best I'd ever had," he said, looking down at his shoes.

Max thought he couldn't feel any worse, but apparently he could.

' _You guys were the best I'd ever had.'_

Here was a kid. A clever kid who could fix radios like nobody's business, could quote any Kurt Vonnegut novel you cared to name, could tell you how many days food had gone off by from taste alone. A kid who ought to have friends and family and yet never thought himself worthy.

He looked up into those eyes and finally saw the boy.

Dean.

He saw the lifetime of cruelty the boy had suffered through. Saw the years of searching for someone who cared, saw the kid's hopes rise and crash, again and again, at every kind word, at every small praise, before finally learning not to trust. Before learning the world doesn't give second chances. Before learning that no matter what he did and who he became, he would always be a filthy, tainted, ex-whore who took someone out of this world the moment he came in.

"I'm so, so, sorry."


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the early updates. It'll be back to Wednesdays as usual now.

Priya was about to knock again when Mrs Winchester opened it.

"Um, Mrs Winchester, is Dean in?" she asked.

"Come in," she said, moving out of the way, "he's just upstairs."

"Thanks," said Priya, walking to the base of the stairs.

"By the way, Sam told me what happened yesterday. I'm glad to hear you didn't take any shi-sugar from those Pyper kids," said Mrs Winchester, with a light smile. Priya, though still angry at her bull-headed son, couldn't help but return the smile. She had started ascending the stairs when Dean's mum added, "Dean's lucky to have a friend like you."

_I don't know if he'd agree._

"Thanks," she said nonetheless.

"Dean?" She knocked on a door and opened it. The room, a study from the looks of it, was empty. "Dean, I know you're mad at me, and I'm pretty mad at you-" The next room was probably Sam's, what with the  _National Geographic_  posters on the walls. "But surely we can talk this through-"

She opened the next door with barely a knock and found herself in the bathroom, facing the back of a recently showered, half naked, Dean. "Oh my god you're not wearing a shir-" she yelped, about to exit but unable to due to the sight in front of her. Dean's back was laced with thin, white trails of scar tissue which rippled as he scrambled for his shirt. "Oh dear God," she whispered.

"Priya!" Dean yelled back. "What the fuck-"

"Dean, how did you get those?"

"Damn lock doesn't work, I swear it had slid all the way in-"

"Who hurt you?"

Dean stopped talking and they stood in silence. Priya watched as Dean's features softened and he finished pulling the shirt over his head.

"You've been real good to me, Bookworm," he spoke softly, "and you'll probably hate me soon." Priya was about to interrupt, but Dean continued. "But I owe you some answers."

"I won't hate you, Dean. I thought I hated you last night, but I'm really shit at staying angry at my friends."

Dean gave a rueful smile. "Want to go to the park?"

* * *

Just as Dean and Priya were about to sit on the swings, the swollen clouds finally burst and the rain started. He could almost hear Sam whispering 'nimbus' in his head and pointing out the one that looked like Santa's beard.

"Dad'll be happy, he's been complaining about the lack of water for his plants," Priya said quietly, swinging herself into the oncoming downpour.

Dean didn't reply. Instead, he took the left swing and started rocking back and forth.

This was it. This was going to be Georgina all over again.

"You know you asked me if I knew the Pypers?"

Priya dug her heels into the playground tarmac and came to a halt. "Yeah?"

Dean felt the rain trickle through his already wet hair. There had been no need for that shower. And if he hadn't have had it, Bookworm might never have caught sight of his back. There would be no need for this conversation.

_Lies._

Priya was the dangerous combination of both astute and caring. He could almost see the cogs turning in her mind and the pieces falling into place. Better she heard it from him before she went about making her own enquiries.

"Before I came to live with the Winchesters, I'd been adopted by the Pypers. Max was the closest thing I had to a friend."

He watched as Priya's eyebrows shot up and fell down again as she tried to suppress her surprise. Soon after, confusion began to dawn.

"Wait a minute, I was invited to Kate's birthday party in December last year and you only moved to our school in May." She stopped and thought, then continued. "That means, unless you were only with the Pypers for less than four months, you must have been there when I was there. But I don't remember seeing you."

Dean shot her a sad smile. "Quit being so smart."

She continued to stare in silence at Dean, insistent for an answer this time.

"I vaguely remember that weekend. I'd been an idiot and used bleach on their new rug," said Dean, remembering his horror as he watched the rug slowly turn from cream to green, "so ma'am had complained to sir about how careless I'd been and I'd had a pretty bad session with him-"

"Session?" interjected Priya.

"A punishment session. Just being whacked about and hit a bit, nothing too bad." Bookworm looked like she was about to argue, but Dean carried on. "I looked like shit after this session though, so Kate didn't want me serving at the party so I spent the night in my room."

"Dean," Priya spoke his name softly. He felt funny hearing it, like he wanted to hear it again. "Just being whacked about and hit a bit doesn't lead to that," she waved a wet arm at his back, "I've been whacked about and hit a bit at karate lessons but I don't have masses of scar tissue from it."

"They're-they're not from the sessions. They're from my father. There were-" he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore the phantom burn. He didn't want to talk about this. He  _didn't._  " _Things_  he wanted me to do. He needed me to work and-and I sometimes said no."

_Shit._

He could see those damn cogs turning once again as Priya started looking pensive, so Dean quickly added, "Do you remember a side door in Kate's kitchen?"

"Do you mean the door to the utility room?" asked Priya, her eyes returning to his.

"Yeah. That room was my bedroom. That's where I was while you'd been there; afterwards I came out to clean up."

"That- that must have been awful," whispered Priya. "Hiding you away like that."

Dean continued to rock on the swing, his hands growing cold from gripping the wet chains that suspended the rubber seat. He felt the rain drip in through the crevice between the collar and his neck, felt the cold line travel down the length of his spine.

_He's angry. His stomach growls and that makes him angrier still. There's no way he's getting leftovers today, not after what he did._

_But it's not his fault. She gave him the rug and the bleach, he'd just used what she'd given him. It's not like he'd enjoyed the chemical burns he'd gotten from it. (The tips of his fingers have gone a funny yellow colour and he can't feel anything anymore. It's happened before, though usually not as badly as this, and the skin will recover after a couple of weeks.) How was he to know that bleach, while fine for bathroom tiles, was never to be used on dyed rugs?_

_He lies on his stomach, careful to not overstretch and re-open the weeping welts, and listens to Kate's friends outside slowly losing themselves to alcohol._

_He used to lose himself to alcohol too, back when he was with his father and was convinced he'd not live to see his next birthday. But being caught red-handed and having a bottle of cheap whiskey emptied down his throat by his father's raging hands, choking on his own vomit as the burn in his stomach continued to grow, had been enough to put him off the amber liquid for life._

_His stomach rumbles again. He imagines eating a massive Big Mac, with extra cheese. He's caught a couple of those adverts on TV while he's been cleaning, they definitely look appetising. He thinks about cooking one himself, but that just makes his stomach hurt even more so he stops._

_The door opens and Dean looks across to see Max has entered. He's not sure if Max is in one of his good moods or not, so he decides to kneel anyway._

_Max looks down at him with a mixture of pity and revulsion and says, "Mum says the guests are going to leave soon and she's going up to bed. You're to have the house tidy by tomorrow, including the vomit in the hallway. And for God's sake, use carpet cleaner this time."_

_Dean nods and slowly gets up off his knees, feeling his thighs sting from the belt marks, but Max isn't done yet. "I told Mum that you'd done a good job on that project about the Apollo 13 mission, so she's letting you have leftovers once everyone leaves."_

_Max leaves and Dean feels a lump rise in his throat. Crazily, he finds he sort of wants to cry._

_Maybe there is a God after all._

"The Pypers weren't really all that bad to me," he said to Priya. "They gave me food and they put up with an idiot like me."

"You're pretty fucking far from an idiot, Dean. You pick things up quickly and you're annoyingly good at maths. I refuse to believe you're stupid."

Dean let out a dry chuckle. "You should have seen me in primary school. I was the Ralph Wiggum of the class. I was with my father back then and I guess I just didn't care. The teachers gave up on me soon after." He looked out at the monkey bars, rivulets collecting dirt as they made their way down the sides. If only everything washed away with the rain.

"But then Mr Pyper took me home. I was expected to do any work Max or Kate ever asked of me and that obviously included homework. After all, who wouldn't take advantage of their personal monkey butler? I'd end up doing nearly every piece of work twice, once for Max and once for me, and Kate's stuff was a couple of years ahead of me so I ended up learning stuff in advance. Then you had the higher education talks-" Dean saw Priya roll her eyes at the memory of the awfully patronising lectures high school kids were subject to every year. "Yeah, I know they're dull and repetitive, but this was the first one that really got to me. I started working so I could pull my grades up enough to think about getting away and living on my own at college. And it was weird, the more I tried, the more I found the work kind of interesting. It's like doing a maths question is a bit like fixing up a car or a radio. You've got a problem in front of you and you've just gotta mess around with it 'til you figure it out."

He wished real life could be that clear cut.

Priya nodded and looked sort of sad as she stared at her feet.

"Of course, now when I think about it, it was obvious they were never gonna let me go. I'd been brought there to work, not to just eat their food and then fuck off."

Priya swung a little higher. "They shouldn't have brought you there to work in the first place," she muttered bitterly.

Dean snorted bitterly. "You weren't there at the foster home. I was one screwed up little shit. I barely talked, nearly attacked anyone who touched me, couldn't even use cutlery properly. If someone came in they'd take one look at me, decide that I'd never be worth the trouble, and fuck off to the baby section. No one was gonna take me in to 'save me' or some shit like that. They'd take me in for the free labour, and to be honest, I can understand that."

"The Winchesters aren't like that."

Dean lifted his head and smiled up at the rain-soaked clouds, feeling the drops land on his closed eyelids like tiny bullets. "I still don't understand them."

It was true. He didn't.

_He walks into his room to find Sam hurrying away from the windowsill._

_"What are you doing? If you're thinking of jamming my window open again as a prank you can quit it right n-" he stops when he sees Sam's hands are hiding something behind his back. "What have you got there?"_

_"You'll laugh," he mumbles._

_"I swear I won't. Big brother promise." He pinches his Adam's apple and Sam sidles closer._

_"It's salt to keep away the demons," he says as he opens his palms. "If there's an unbroken line around the entrances to a room, they can't get in."_

_Dean starts grinning but Sam sees it and starts to sulk. "Hey, just smiling, not laughing. But you know these things aren't real, right?"_

_"I know, but just in case, I wanted you to be protected. People go missing around here all the time."_

_"Name three people who have gone missing from around here in the last decade," Dean challenges, fighting hard to keep the laugh down at Sam's twelve year old 'thinking' face. It's a big brother promise after all._

_Sam gives up. "That's not the point, Dean. The point is if the line's broken, the protection fails. It's not as thick as I wanted so_ don't disturb it _." He finishes off in the most threatening voice he can manage and Dean has to bite the inside of his cheeks to stop the grin._

_"I won't," he says in what he hopes is a sincere voice. "Have you done all the other rooms too?"_

_"Mum wouldn't give me any more salt, she thinks I'm trying to electroplate things again. I only had enough to do continuous lines around one room."_

_All urge to grin vanishes. "Why?" Dean can't help the way his voice cracks. He tries to cover it with a cough. "Why my room and not your own?"_

_The kid shrugs. "I know other ways to protect myself. You don't." He looks at his watch, an 'adult' one now that he's outgrown Ben 10. "Simpsons is on so I'm gonna go watch that."_

_"Thanks Sammy," says Dean, just as Sam's about to leave. He tries to say the words with all the affection, care, and pride he feels for the kid but he knows he'll fail._

_There are no words to express that._

His twisted his head and opened his eyes at the sound of Priya's legs scraping against the ground, the grey of her jeans practically black due to the rain. She slowed down to a halt. "I'm guessing that's why you call Mr and Mrs Winchester sir and ma'am? Billy and I were wondering about that, it just seemed a little… different."

Dean didn't really have the words to explain how mind-numbingly terrified he was of their abandonment, so he just settled for a quiet "yeah" and let the silence build.

Priya was looking at him, biting the slight tear in her lip. "Why-why did Kate keep calling you a whore yesterday?" she asked, hesitantly, before quickly adding, "You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to."

"My father, he sometimes-" he stopped abruptly, realising what had nearly slipped out of his mouth. But as he watched her close her eyes slowly and swallow, he wondered if he might have been too late. "You're getting soaked, let's go home before ma'am kicks my ass for staying out in the rain."

Priya nodded mutely and left the swing to walk to the park gate.

"I'm sorry about yesterday. I didn't mean any of it," he said, joining her at the gate.

The mess of wet, black hair fell in front of her face as she whispered, "I understand, and I'm sorry too."

Maybe she did understand. Maybe they all did. Maybe there was a God up there who had finally decided that Dean was worth saving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've posted a Teenchesters one-shot which includes Dean wearing make-up and quoting Shakespeare. (Summary: Sam joins in with a school production of Romeo and Juliet and manages to rope a reluctant Dean in too.) If you happen to read it, please feel free to leave me your thoughts (good or bad, I appreciate both). Feedback on any of my work is always hugely appreciated.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter this week to make up for the lack of Dean in it.
> 
> There are mild spoilers for What is and What Should Never Be in this chapter and the next few that follow. I apologise if I've got any of the lore wrong in any of this. Also, Dean's joke in this chapter only works if you pronounce 'beta' the American way, i.e. bay-ta. Apologies in advance for the joke. I couldn't resist.

"C'mon, Yasmine Bleeth easily!" exclaimed Ash.

"She's hot, I'll give you that, but have you seen Pamela Anderson's rack?" Dean said from his right.

Ash craned his neck round further and said, "Billy, back me up here, Yasmine Bleeth is easily the hottest person on Baywatch."

Billy looked up from the text message and shrugged. "I dunno, I always thought it was David Charvet myself."

"I second that," said Priya, barely looking up from her frantic scribbling.

"What are you writing?" asked Dean.

"I got the third one wrong so I'm writing down how to get to the answer."

Dean grinned. "It's a shame Mohammed dropped maths, that would have been such great ammo for him."

Sixth form had started but you could hardly tell from their maths class, which was nearly identical to last year in both work and in faces. If Billy was honest he kind of missed Mohammed and his bullshit. Still, at least Ash was back with them now.

Ash had originally been in the top set last year, but had been demoted for arguing and talking back to the teacher. Billy wasn't certain of why they couldn't have punished him using more conventional methods but he'd guess it was because the kid had been through detention more times than most people had living relatives. He just didn't care anymore. He'd waltz in, finish off the work, then strut his way out again with a grin and a wink. But being kicked out of one of the few classes that still challenged him, that had hurt him more than a detention ever could.

Mr Watson might have been the dullest teacher Billy had ever met, but he had to hand it to him. He knew more about his students than he let on.

With that in mind, Billy tucked away the mobile phone, planning to reply to the text a little later. He picked up his pencil and was about to tick the next answer when Ash turned around once again.

"Any of you guys up for beta-ing the latest game I've coded? It's like Tetris but with more levels and the colours of the blocks lead to additional points."

"I'll do it, I'm a master beta," Dean said with a shit-eating grin as both Billy and Priya groaned and rolled their eyes.

"How long have you been waiting to make that joke?" asked Priya.

"About half my life," said Dean, his grin growing wider as Priya's face broke into a small smile.

Priya turned to Ash and said, "I'll beta for you if you want, just send the game to my school email address."

Ash shook his head.

"Why not? The file's too big?"

"It's nothing to do with that, the file size is fine," he said, before dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The school network's a joke. I hacked into it a couple of weeks ago just for the hell of it. Man, I could see everyone's personal files and everything-"

"Ash, I hope you've got all this marked and you're on task two now?" Mr Watson interjected from the other side of the classroom, eyebrows raised in a challenge.

"Yes, sir, just finishing off task two," Ash replied.

"Shit, he's coming to check," whispered Priya. "Quick, take mine." She started pushing her sheets towards him but he held up some lined pages covered with his spiky scrawl and handed them to the teacher.

Mr Watson looked over the completed work and walked off with a grunt and a nod. Ash smirked at Priya's look of incredulity.

"What? I got it done quickly near the beginning of the lesson," he shrugged.

"I haven't missed you at all, you know that?" said Priya.

Ash smirked, before leaning in again to whisper, "So nothing through the school network, I'm not having anyone taking my idea. I'll bring it in on a memory stick and give you that."

"Okay," said Priya, before returning to her work. Ash turned around to face the right way again and there was a lull in the conversation.

Billy got out his mobile phone again and sighed.

_'I can come over on Friday evening, is that okay?'_

_It's not okay, but it's the best we're getting._

Billy and Luke rarely got to meet up, though when they did, they both had a great time. After all, it was hard to not have a good time marathoning Top Gear and stuffing your face full of doughnuts. But Friday evenings were when Billy and Priya usually met up to kick back and put on some 80s slasher flick and try to guess who was going to be the next to die.

Still, he and Priya could do it the week after.

"Priya, Luke wants to meet up with me and he's saying he can come over this Friday," he said, sheepishly.

She glanced up at him before looking back at her work. "Sure thing, I hope you guys have a good time."

Billy sighed, knowing Shortie was a little disappointed. "Thanks."

It was no fun picking between friends.

* * *

Sam looked at his watch again and huffed. To be fair, it had only been fifteen minutes since school had ended, but Dean was never late.

He watched the stragglers slowly filter out of the school gates, leaning further into the corner he was standing at to try and keep off the October chill. He hoped Dean would come soon. There was homework to be done and Mythbusters were doing a special episode on the uses of cola that he wanted to catch.

Pulling his collar up, he glanced round for a glimpse of a brown leather jacket and wondered again what might be keeping him. He didn't have any clubs on- football was on Wednesday lunchtime, not after school. Maybe he'd gone to the library? He was tempted to go check, but what if Dean went to their spot when Sam wasn't there and then went to look for him?

Easier to just stay put.

Just then, Priya barged out of the main entrance and stumbled down the steps.

"Priya! Do you know where Dean is?" asked Sam.

The girl took a few deep breaths and steadied herself against the wall. "I've just run 'round the whole school looking for him. And Billy too." She took another breath. "Billy went to the toilet in physics about half an hour ago and then Dean did a little later. I haven't seen either of them since."

Sam felt a wave of fear wash over him. Dean wasn't likely to skip lessons or head home without Sam, so where was he?

_You're being irrational. He'll be fine. He probably got distracted by something shiny, the jerk._

Nonetheless, in less than ten seconds, he found himself bounding up the school steps. "You say he went to the toilet, did you check there?" he asked.

"They're the boys' toilets, I kind of don't fit the specification for entry," replied Priya, taking the steps two at a time to catch up.

Sam keyed in the seven digit code that opened the main doors. "Right, we'll check there first."

He walked down the corridor and started to turn off when Priya called after him. "Billy never uses the main toilets. He says they're always too busy and he prefers the ones in the basement, near the deliveries entrance. He told Dean about them and I think Dean uses the same ones now."

Sam backtracked and they ran through the main hall and raced down the grey cement steps to the basement. Priya waited outside as Sam entered the boys' toilets.

"Dean!" he yelled.

No answer.

He walked along the line of cubicles banging each door open, trying to control his anger as the dark pit of trepidation grew in his stomach. He stopped at the last one and turned back round to come out when he saw them.

A dark brown M&M, a blue one a little further along.

He walked back out and opened his palm to show them to Priya. "He definitely came down here."

Priya nodded. "I was waiting here and I saw that," she said, pointing at a surveillance camera that was pointing down into the large, cream coloured tunnel out of the school. "They record everything, partly because it's the only non-coded entrance to the school and partly so they can do a roundup at the end of the month of all the deliveries that have been made. I was talking to Mrs Robinson in Admin about it a couple of weeks ago."

Sam shook his head. The girl knew too much for her own good. "What are you suggesting? Should we go to Administration and ask to see the recordings?"

Priya thought for a while, then pouted and shook her head. "Nah, they won't let us. Confidentiality or some crap like that-" Priya stopped and started walking up the stairs again.

"What?" asked Sam, following her.

"They might not let us see the recordings willingly, but I think I know someone who can hack in and gain access. When are your parents expecting you home by?"

"They won't mind as long as it's within half an hour or so," said Sam, as they walked across the middle yard and through the corridor to the empty computer room.

"Okay then, if we still don't know where they are by then, call them and tell them you can't find him," she said, before turning round and walking towards the furthest corner in the room. "Ash!"

Apparently the room wasn't empty. A leather chair swivelled round-

_the teacher's chair, no less_

-and the mullet-haired guy called back a quick "hey Priya", before swearing at his monitor as some coloured blocks meeting made an error message appear onscreen.

"Ash, I really need your help," Priya threw her denim jacket onto the chair next to Ash's and sat down hurriedly. "Remember what you said about being able to get into the school network?"

Ash nodded, not looking away from his screen, where he was frantically editing code. "Yeah, why?"

"Are the school surveillance cameras linked into the same network?"

"Yeah," he hit 'Enter' and turned round to face Priya and Sam. "School's stupid, they keep all their eggs in one basket."

"Good, so do you think you can get me access to the recordings?"

He turned back to the screen and continued to type. "Uh, sure I guess, but for how long back? The archived stuff might take longer to get to..." he trailed off, busy trying to get blocks of the same colour to line up with each other.

"Just the last few hours, that's all," replied Priya.

"Okay, but then I have to get back to the game. I tried something different but it seems to have more bugs than a David Attenborough documentary."

"Thanks," said Priya, turning on the computer she was sat at and starting to log in. "I owe you one."

Sam watched in fascination as Ash opened up something called 'Command Prompt' and started typing in line after line of gibberish. Within about ten minutes, they were staring at footage they weren't meant to be able to see.

_This is so illegal…_

_Growing up is so cool!_

He felt a shiver of excitement run down his spine as he relished the feeling of breaking the rules.

Ash then shifted back to his computer and Priya took charge. She selected the camera staring down into the large mouth of the deliveries entrance and started to rewind to about two hours ago.

"This was before the physics lesson so we won't have missed anything if there's anything to see," she said as they watched the back end of a van leave the screen. She sped up the clip and leaned back to watch.

Not much happened. It was pretty clear no one else used that area anymore and there were few deliveries to the school. Sam grabbed a chair and took a seat. They weren't even likely to get anything from this clip. All it'd probably show was that Billy and Dean had gone to the toilet and then come back out again and walked up the stairs.

Sam was about to stifle a yawn when he saw movement. Billy had come down the steps and entered the toilet. Then, the screen blurred and ripples of noise appeared as someone seemed to walk out of the wall of the tunnel and came towards the camera, staring at the boys' toilets.

Priya paused and Sam asked her to zoom in. She did so and Sam could just make out, beneath the bands of fuzz, a tattooed man.

This was not looking good.

Priya flicked forward slowly through the frames and watched as the ripples of static undulated and the man waited. Billy came out, wiping his wet hands on his jeans, and looked up to see-

_the djinn_

-the tattooed man.

_You have to stop your imagination getting the best of you. It's bad enough there's a strange man lurking around the boys' toilets, no need to make it worse by getting the supernatural involved._

But the next frames made the creature unmistakable. It lunged forward and grabbed the kid, touching his forehead, some kind of light spreading over his hands. In the next frame, Billy was unconscious. The few after showed the creature dragging the body towards the wall and the one after those showed nothing again.

"Wh-what was that?" Priya whispered, her eyes wide with terror.

"Skip to when Dean came down," said Sam, tersely.

Priya played at double speed until his bowlegged big brother was onscreen, walking into the toilets. The djinn appeared again not long after. It was like watching a black and white stop-motion horror film. Dean saw the monster, ducked as it attacked, and scrambled for the steps. Sam stared in dismay as a frame showed him stumble. Frame by frame, he watched as the light overtook his brother, as Dean's body was dragged towards the wall, where it would join his friend.

Priya flicked onto the next frame, which once again showed an empty entrance. She leaned back and closed her eyes. "It's a dream, just wake up. This is not real…" she muttered to herself.

Sam shook her and she jerked up. "This is real and I know what that is. Come on," he said, hoisting up his schoolbag and getting off his chair. Priya thanked Ash and turned off the computer, her hand shaking as she let go of the mouse. Soon after, she followed Sam out into the empty corridor.

"Shit, Sam, we're gonna have to tell the police," she leaned against the wall and clenched her fists. "They've been kidnapped, oh god, they've been kidnapped, Sam!"

"Hey, Priya, we can't go to the police-"

"Why not?" She interjected. "We're really not old enough to handle this on our own. I wish we were but we're not."

"Because that thing isn't human," said Sam, knowing how ridiculous that must have sounded.

Sure enough, Priya looked up at him incredulously. "It-It's gotta be human. I mean, that was clearly a man, even through the static you could see that."

"Didn't you find the static a bit odd? What could cause EMF disturbances like that?"

"Uh, a really strong magnet maybe, I dunno what else…"

"Exactly, and did you see any neodymium magnets around?" he asked, hoping he'd pronounced the name of those really powerful magnets that were almost impossible to separate by hand correctly. They were pretty cool, he could probably get his hands on some for Christmas.

_Maybe Dean can try and make a crude generator from them?_

The thought of the family engineer brought him back to the task at hand.

"Did you?" he pressed.

Priya bit her lip. "No," she said.

"It all adds up. The tattoos, the weird light at his fingertips, the way they fall unconscious so quickly, the fuzz on the recordings."

"It's not adding up. It's not adding up at all," Priya fretted. "I'm going to get a teacher."

Sam grabbed her bag before she could walk off and jerked her back with a huff. "Look, you won't find many teachers around anymore. And, more importantly, I know what that is and the teachers will neither believe it, nor be able to do anything about it."

Priya closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths before opening them again. The panic had subsided a little, but not much. "Okay, I'm listening."

"Okay. The thing in there is a djinn. It's sort of like a genie, it grants you your deepest wish and lets you live that out in a sort of hallucination while it slowly feeds on your blood."

"What sort of fucked up version of Aladdin have they been watching?"

"This isn't Disney, this is real. I wasn't sure they actually existed but this-" he gestured towards the computer room, "this has convinced me otherwise. There are probably a lot of other supernatural creatures out there too, but for now, we've got to focus on this. And get this, their 'magic' sort of distorts electric currents, like a magnet or a lot of power cables would. That's why there was static. Also, djinns have to administer a poison to knock you out and get you dreaming and that's what it was doing with that weird light around his hands."

"This is really screwed up." Priya rubbed her hands down her face. "Like, really,  _really,_ screwed up."

"I don't like it either, but right now we've got to work on finding where they took them and how to kill the thing."

"Okay, say you're right. Say ghosts and witches and-and these  _genies_  are real. Will they have left the school, dya think?"

"I doubt it. It wouldn't be able to drag the two bodies along without attracting attention to itself. No, they prefer dark, abandoned places to hoist their prey up in, if I remember correctly."

"Wow, you really read around this ghost stuff."

Sam shrugged. "It was a phase."

Priya's head suddenly rose and she picked up her schoolbag. "If you're right in saying they won't have left the school, I think I know where they might have gone."

She walked into the main hall and Sam quickly followed, nearly bumping into her when she stopped abruptly in front of a slightly cheesy display board titled 'So many years… so many memories'. It was covered with Moreton High's greatest hits and pictures of how the school developed from its infancy to its current state.

"Look at this blueprint. And then at the most recent one." She pointed at the basement areas of both. "See how the old one has that classroom labelled 3B and this one doesn't?" She said, leaving smudges on the glass above the bit marked 'Deliveries Entrance'. "I was looking at this map-" she paused when she saw Sam's raised eyebrows, "what? It was a really long assembly, I was bored."

Sam shook his head. "Doesn't matter, continue."

"So yeah, I was looking at this and I was wondering 'how could a classroom disappear?' So I asked some of the older teachers and it turns out that used to be an English room. But because it was so out of the way, the powers that be decided to scrap it and just turn that whole area into a deliveries entrance. That room was abandoned and it has been for quite a few years now. I think they might occasionally use it for storing crap they can't find a decent place for. Does that sound like somewhere one of these djinns might live?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, that sounds about right. Also, I think the djinn must be pretty severely weakened. If it was at full strength it could have easily blurred the whole of the recording, but there was relatively little blurring so it's probably a pretty busted up or old djinn."

"I guess that's something. How do we kill it? How long will it take for it to kill the boys?" asked Priya, looking down worriedly at her watch.

"The boys will be okay for a bit, it takes a few days for all the blood to drain out. And to kill it, we need a silver knife. Where are we going to get one of those in school?"

Priya grimaced. "We're not. But we have a silver carving knife at home. I live about fifteen minutes away from here, ten if I run. Dad'll be at work and I'll tell Mum I'm needed for a play at school or something."

"Yeah, okay," Sam checked the time and frowned. "Mum and Dad will be getting worried soon, what should I do?"

"I dunno, lie or something." Priya shrugged.

"Really? But-but won't they be able to tell?" Sam didn't like this idea at all. Every time he'd tried lying, his dad had caught him out right away.

"C'mon, just make something up! Dean's been asked to fill in for someone in a football match and he's going to be another couple of hours in coming home. You're going along to cheer him on. There." Priya spoke brusquely, but then seemed to see Sam squirming and softened. "I know you don't want to and, trust me, I don't want you to. Hell, I have half a mind to go down there alone without you-"

"No. No way am I staying up here while Dean's down there with that monster." Sam crossed his arms, adamant.

Priya crossed her arms in response, but quickly uncrossed them again with a sigh. "Okay, I get it. I'd not have let anyone keep me up here if it had been Sonali. Fine, but then you're going to have to tell  _something_  to your parents and if you say Dean's been kidnapped by a genie, what do you think they'll say?"

Sam could almost hear his mum's panicked voice. The sound of police sirens. The soft yet authoritative voice of a therapist telling him ghosts weren't real.

"I'll call them, you go get the knife," he said, resignation washing over him as he prepared to lie as convincingly as he could.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Spoilers for _What is and What Should Never Be_. This chapter contains non-graphic abuse and rape.
> 
> I thought I'd try my hand at something a little different this chapter, I'd love to hear what you think of it.

_The moment he wakes, he knows something is wrong._

_This isn't his room, it's Sam's._

_Except it's not. The 'Civil War to Civil Rights' poster that his brother so carefully removed from a National Geographic issue with a ruler is no longer hanging by the desk. In fact, the desk isn't made of the same wood Sam's desk is made of._

_The last thing he remembers is the tattooed man approaching and his cold, cold, fingers brushing against his forehead. He remembers the darkness spreading inwards from the outside of his vision, remembers the question._

_But that's ridiculous._

_Maybe he just got knocked out and Sam tried to take him home…_

_He knows that doesn't explain even half of what's wrong so he shuffles out of bed and exits the room looking for answers._

_But first he really needs to pee. He swears he remembers going down to the basement toilets and using them, but it seems his bladder has shrunk to the size of a pea. Going into the bathroom, he again notices the lack of Sam's toothbrush and the toothpaste isn't the whitening version that they usually use._

_He's going crazy. That must be it._

_He knows there's one other explanation but that's nearly the same as being insane._

_He comes back out and throws his bedroom door open, only to have it hit ma'am._

_"Easy Dean!" she yelps as she drops the clothes she was holding._

_"Sorry, I didn't know you were in there," says Dean, picking up the clothes._

_"Well, I wouldn't have to be if you'd sorted the laundry out as you were meant to," says ma'am, taking the clothes from him and folding them up again. "How many times do I have to tell you to pick up your stuff after I've ironed them?"_

_"Sorry ma'am," says Dean. She's never had to tell him but apparently she has. "Where's Sam? Why was I in his room?"_

_Ma'am looks at him, half-confused, half exasperated. "Let's have less cheek from you, young man. I'm not being unreasonable when I ask you to do your share of the work. And who's Sam?"_

_Dean gapes. "Sam. Your- your kid. You know…" he stutters._

_"I don't know, and if you're just doing this to waste my time, I don't appreciate it. I'm really busy Dean," she says, sliding past him onto the landing._

_Dean grabs onto her arm and looks up, hoping to see some mirth in her eyes that'll give away the prank. All he sees is confusion and the slightest hint of anger._

_"I'm- I'm not messing with you. You- you know Sammy… long girlie hair and too much brain?" He looks round her to see sir coming up the stairs. "Sir, what's going on? Where's Sam?"_

_The same quizzical look. "What do you mean? Sam? Did you sneak a girl home last night? Because you know we talked about that-"_

_"No! Sam! Your real kid, my little brother!" Dean finds he's shouting in a way he'd never do to the ordinary Mr and Mrs Winchester. But these aren't them. These can't possibly be them._

_"What are you on about? You're our real kid, our only kid," he pauses and gives him that condescending look that adults put on when they're trying to empathise. "Dean, is school stressing you out? I know year twelve can be a hard time and I want you to know that you can talk to us…"_

_Dean stops listening. He doesn't really know what's going on but he feels he has a better idea now._

_He remembers his answer._

I don't want to be the stray they took in.

I don't want to feel like I don't belong.

I wish I was their  _real_ kid, like Sam.

_He hadn't wanted to think it, hadn't wanted to be so ungrateful as to take everything they had given him and ask for more. But somehow, in a moment of weakness, as the cold crept into his temple and consciousness started to fade, he'd let it slip out._

_It's not as if it wasn't true. Everyone knows blood is thicker than water._ _But if he was a real Winchester now, where was Sam?_

_Before he gets the chance to ponder that, he realises he's meant to respond to whatever sir has been saying. "Uhm, sure, I'll bear it in mind."_

_He isn't sure if that had been the right thing to say, but apparently it is, as sir replies with, "Good. Now get yourself in the car, or you'll be late for school."_

_Four hours later, he is in school and life isn't getting any better. Billy had refused to acknowledge him and Priya had bluntly told him to leave her alone when he'd gone over to sit with them in class. Instead, Beth and Rob saved him a seat and now he is spending his lunch munching a ham and cheese sandwich and wondering if Sammy's crazy books aren't so crazy after all._

_Once, quite soon after Sam had brought home the box of books from the Masons' place, Dean had gone into Sam's room to ask him something and found him reading one. Curious, he'd asked about his fascination with them. Sam had replied that he couldn't explain it; he just felt like he ought to read about it. He'd tossed him a book from the pile._

_Dean had opened the aged tome and immediately known what Sam's cryptic words had meant. As he flicked between the pages, he felt himself being drawn into the illustrations of devil's traps and Latin incantations that decorated the paper. There were comprehensive descriptions of mythical beings, everything from their powers and origins to their typical victims and how to kill them._

_Of course, both brothers had agreed it couldn't be real. Both had nodded and smirked and looked away, wondering why the books they were holding felt like they were heavy with the truth._

_Dean takes another bite of the sandwich and tries to quash the feeling of things falling into place. There had been a page he'd lingered on for a little while before moving onto the page on wendigos. It had been about some creature from the Qu'ran that looked like it had been attacked by a combination of tattoo guns and some of Priya's henna templates._

_His thoughts are broken when he hears a sob in the back of his mind. He looks up from the sandwich to see a boy kneeling in the corner of the dining hall, the back of his shirt in shreds._

_"Who's he?" he asks Beth, swinging his head towards the kid._

_"Who?" She follows Dean's gaze but remains confused._

_"You know, that kid in the corner." He gestures again._

_"You mean Fat Alan? You know him—"_

_Dean breaks her off by standing up and striding towards the bleeding kid that apparently only he can see. His hair's shaggy and matted, clearly unwashed like the rest of him. The kid shifts and cringes._

_"Please, I'll be good," he whispers, the voice cracked and hoarse. He looks up and Dean stands transfixed as he looks upon the slanted hazel eyes, the little mole next to the nose._

_That can't be his brother._

_That_ can't _be._

_But it is. It's the same kid that had shook his hand and asked him what his favourite kind of sandwich was. It's the same kid who likes The Simpsons and has a crush on Jessica Moore._

_And yet, this kid's eyes hold no hope. They're dull with pain and exhaustion. The words out of his mouth are the same ones Dean has said numerous times as his father approached with the lunge whip he still owned from his horse riding days. There are no dimpled grins or exasperated huffs or good-natured grumbling. This kid can't possibly be Sam Winchester._

_"Dude, what are you doing?" Rob calls out as Dean finally manages to get his legs working and takes another step towards this horrifying doppelganger._

_Dean turns round and yells at the table, "Can't you see him? How can you not see him?" But when he turns back, the kid that isn't Sam blurs and disappears._

_He keeps staring at the empty spot until he feels Beth's hand on his arm, running up and down it lightly. "Dean, are you feeling okay?"_

_"Yeah, just-" He jerks his arm out of her reach. "Just, I think I need to get to my next lesson."_

_He packs up the rest of his lunch and hurries to maths, hoping to talk to Priya about what's going on and get Bookworm to think of something a little more viable than the weird djinn crap that he keeps coming up with._

_The bell rings and he enters the classroom. Everyone stares at him as he moves towards his table, where Mohammed is currently sat._

_"Dean, what are you doing here?" Mr Watson asks._

_Dean can only gape in response. Has he read his timetable wrong? But he can't have, this is his maths class and Billy and Priya are here, though admittedly they're both looking at him like he's dropped out of the sky or something._

_He opens his school diary on the timetable page and sees he's supposed to be in 5L with Mr Maskawa, the teacher of the bottom set._

_"Sorry," he mumbles as he practically runs out of the classroom, desperate to get away from the gawking eyes. He flicks through the planner and sees line upon line of scarlet ink. Missed homeworks. Low test scores. Skipped classes._

_He slams the book shut and scrunches his eyes, wanting to wash away all the red. Suddenly, his head splits open with a bright blue pain that seems to slice up his mind into thin pieces. He sees something, it's gone in less than a fraction of a second but it's enough._

_A dark cupboard. A curled up figure. Hitched breaths. The bitter smell of fresh bile._

_The pain vanishes as quickly as it came and Dean collapses against the wall in the main hall. His hand palms his left pocket but cannot feel anything but denim. He slides it in slowly and finds it empty inside._

_He hates it, but things are starting to make sense._

_He looks down at the front of the diary. Underneath the logo and motto of the school is his name. On the one in the real world it just says 'Dean'. Here, 'Winchester' has been added. He picks up his bag and shoves the planner back in._

_So djinns are real. He is in some kind of alternate universe where his wish has been granted. But it has come at a price he cannot afford. Billy and Priya are no longer his friends. Sammy is no longer his brother._

_No. It's worse than that. A whole fucking lot worse. Sam is now living through all of the horrors that Dean has spent the last few years trying to forget. As Dean sits here, doing nothing, Sam is slowly having his innocence and self-worth hacked to pieces._

_Dean gets up, strides to the hall door and yanks it open. If he's skipped so many classes, it can't hurt to bunk a few more. He walks out into the front yard and leaves via the school gates, pulling his wallet out in the meantime. It's surprisingly full. Back in the proper world, he only has a fiver that ma'am had given him on his third day at school to buy any food he likes the look of from the school canteen if he isn't feeling like one of her sandwiches. But here, his wallet contains about fifty pounds worth of cash._

_That's more than enough to get to where he wants._

_The train journey is uneventful and it has started to get cloudy by the time he arrives in Gildering. Finding the house isn't too much of a challenge, he did live there for fourteen years after all. The door opens readily so his father must be expecting a client._

_Client._

_The word makes Dean tremble with rage as he remembers that this man won't be_ his  _client. He'll be Sam's._

_He steps inside onto the ugly orange carpet he's spent so much of his childhood facing and enters the living room._

_There he is, dressed in tight jeans and an even tighter vest. There are the remains of his brother._

_Sam looks up and scalds Dean with his gaze. It is not a look of happiness or even recognition. It is a look of fear laced with revulsion._

_"Father's in the toilet. Leave the money on the table, I'll go get a condom," says Sam, sounding far more broken than a twelve year old has any right to be._

_Dean feels bile rise up as the words hit home. "What? Wait, no!" he yells after the kid._

_Sam's head whips round. He's the one looking angry now. "I'm not doing anything without protection," he spits out. Dean's head reels as he remembers his father's insistence on keeping his money-maker STD-free._

_He advances towards the kid, taking in the remnants of a black eye and the slight limp. His jaw clenches and his fists ball up as he thinks of the horrific things he -and therefore Sam- has had done to him._

_But then he stops in horror as he watches the kid's eyes flicker between his face and his fists. Sam shrinks in on himself, curling his arms around his emaciated torso. Dean uncurls his hand and forces his face to relax, feeling a wave of sorrow wash over him as he catches the whimper that escapes his brother's mouth._

_Just then, there's the sound of a toilet flushing._

_This is it. The man coming out of there isn't his father. In this place, his dad is Michael Winchester. No, the man who is about to enter is simply the man who has hurt Sammy and nothing more. Not a widower who did what he did out of desperation and to make use of his mistake of a son. Not an unemployed jockey who only turned to drink to drown his sorrows. Not a man who whored his little boy out only because he really needed the money._

_No. This man is the filth at the bottom of a sewage pipe and no better._

_Dean turns to face the door and steadies himself, ready to pounce and beat the crap out of the man who made his brother's life a living hell. The edges of his vision are starting to blur but he reckons that might just be the anger coursing through him, allowing him to focus only on the doorknob that's starting to turn._

_This is it._

_"_ _I'm gonna kill you!" he yells as he dives forward. His world turns black._


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: This chapter contains violence and a character death (nothing heartbreaking, I assure you).

"I'll go in, you stay out here as backup. Go get someone if I don't come back out."

Sam rolled his eyes but tightened his grip on the wrench they'd borrowed from the metal workshop all the same. Priya threw open the door and started slashing madly with the knife.

Nothing happened.

She advanced further into the dark, disappearing out of sight. Sam peered in, hating the way his heart raced every time he took a step away from the light. The room was the equivalent of an odd-job man. Everything from tables and chairs to the odd disused blackboard and a cardboard box that seemed to contain glue sticks were stacked up and collecting dust.

Priya gave a low whistle from inside, their signal that the coast was clear and she'd found the boys. Sam crept in, willing his hands to stop shaking, and blinked to adjust to the dark as the door swung shut behind him. Inside, behind a rusting water filter, were Dean and Billy. They were tied up to chairs and hooked up to what looked a bit like those blood transfusion bags that were often used on Dr Sexy MD.

Climbing over a stack of folders, Priya finally reached Billy and started hacking at his ropes with the knife. Sam took another few steps towards his brother, but stopped and ducked behind a greying whiteboard when Priya let out a strangled yelp. He peeked over the edge to see the djinn step out from behind a stack of tables, its eyes flashing blue as it grabbed Priya's arms and threw her across the room into a pile of cardboard boxes. The knife clattered as it fell out of her hand and came to rest uselessly on the cement floor a couple of metres away.

_This isn't anything like when Harry Potter and his friends try to save the day. This is utterly terrifying._

Sam knew he had to act fast. The djinn was approaching Priya, arm outstretched, fingers playing with blue fire. He took quick, shallow breaths and started to slide to the side, keeping an eye on the djinn's stooped back. Another couple of steps and he was by the door again, which was when he decided to make his move.

Arm stretched backwards, he gathered up all his strength and threw the wrench as far as he could, deep into the underbelly of the storage room. The djinn's eyes followed the sound of cardboard boxes tumbling and it shoved Priya aside, stalking back into the depths to investigate.

Sam moved quickly, praying that he might be able to avoid the debris scattered everywhere. For a school obsessed with health and safety, they sure did leave a lot of crap lying around.

_Quit with the sarcasm and try using those stupid little grey cells you're always going on about._

But it was too late. As Sam approached Priya, he watched as she lifted her head up woozily and rested her hand on a chair that had been leaning precariously on top of an upturned table. He watched, aeons passing as the chair tilted, its centre of balance shifting until gravity did its work and it smashed onto the underside of the table.

_Of course, it had to be the one table not covered in chewing gum to mask the fall._

There was no time to lament the work of Murphy's Law as the djinn returned. It moved with a strangely fluid grace despite its withered limbs. Sam ducked beneath the nearest supply of chalk dusters and peered over the edge of the box, willing his heart to quit pounding and giving his position away. Priya watched the monster approach. Her leg kicked out in an obvious footsweep that the djinn was completely prepared for, but then she glanced down to the glinting metal lying about a metre away from Sam's hiding spot.

The creature started to turn to follow her gaze, but a short, sharp kick from the girl brought his attention back to her.

_She knows you're here and she needs you to do this. They all do._

Sam finally understood why Alex Rider hated being the teenage spy that most young boys would kill to be. Playing with your life was undeniably overrated.

Sam crept forward as the djinn's eyes fixed themselves solidly on the prey in front of him, the azure flames licking every inch of his skin as the tattoos spread down his arms. As the monster started to caress Priya's face with aged fingers and her eyes started to roll into her head, Sam picked up the knife his hand had been hovering over and struck.

It was quick and it was clumsy and it was lethal. Sam sprung up, waited for the djinn to turn and face its attacker, then drove the silver blade in through pliant flesh as the creature lunged forward to spread its poisonous touch. The dead weight fell further onto the blade and Sam gave it a twist just to be safe before letting it fall to the ground.

Priya was panting heavily as she made her way towards the tied boys. "Sam," she rasped, "knife."

Sam levered the body over and pulled out the knife, not all that surprised to see there was no blood on it. Nonetheless, it still kind of felt like murder. He'd be so screwed if Miss Marple was here.

Sidling his way past a couple of stacks of lunch trays, he handed Priya the knife before scrambling over a box of whiteboard markers to get to his brother. Sam pulled out the drip entering Dean's neck and cupped the guy's cold, pale face as his eyelids started to flutter.

"Here, take this" said Priya, leaning over to pass him the knife while hoisting a fallen Billy up into the seat again.

Sam reached round and started hacking through the ropes, feeling the strands give without too much effort. He felt like he might have heard something like 'g'na kill you' escape from his brother's lips so he stopped and looked back just in time to see his brother's eyes open.

Those eyes weren't Dean's. Those eyes had more rage in them than Sam had ever seen. Those eyes were drenched in bloodlust.

But then the eyes cleared as Dean caught sight of Sam and confusion replaced the terrifying fury. "Sam?" He grunted against the rope, pulling his hands apart. Sam leaned in to help cut them once again but was stopped by Dean's arms wrapping themselves around his shoulders in a tight hug. "Sam!"

"It's okay Dean, the thing's gone," said Sam, trying to sound reassuring as he returned the hug.

But the idiot wasn't listening. Instead, he mumbled "you're okay, you're okay, you're here and you're okay" into his shoulder before leaning back to appraise him. "What are you doing here? How did you get here?"

Dean turned to glare at Priya, who was still trying to rouse Billy. "Hey, don't look at me. I asked him to stay behind," she said with a shrug, going back to gently shaking the blond guy's shoulders.

"You could have been hurt, you stupid, stupid bitch, you could have died!" Dean's eyes drifted off into the corner of the room before returning to meet his gaze. "I can't see you get hurt, Sam. Hell, what would your parents say if-"

Sam had had enough. " _Our_ parents, Dean! What do you think they'd have done if  _you'd_  died? You think they'd be happy? You think they'd ever be the same again?" He tried not to yell as he pocketed the knife and looked into those sceptical eyes.

Dean shrugged and muttered something like 'probably be better off'.

Sam rolled his eyes and hitched his brother up onto his feet. Dean staggered forward into the kid's arms. "You weight too much, you know that?" he huffed as he steadied the pair of them.

Sam didn't like the way Dean nodded immediately. "I'll eat less, I promise," the kid whispered as he regained his footing.

"I don't mean that," Sam sighed, acting as a crutch as Dean slowly started taking baby steps towards the door. "I just mean you're three hundred pounds of solid muscle, that's all."

The kid stood a little straighter and shot Sam a cocky smirk. "Of course I am, bitch."

"Jerk," snorted Sam.

They continued to edge their way around the upturned tables and stacked chairs together, Dean slowly regaining the ability to walk on his own. It was only when they were near the door that Sam remembered Priya and Billy. Turning round, he saw Priya clumsily making her way out, carrying Billy awkwardly in her arms.

"That girl is freakishly strong," stated Sam.

"I know, she scares me sometimes," shrugged Dean. "You need any help there, Bookworm?"

"Just focus on getting yourself out, Freckles. Looks like Snow White here is going to need a little longer to wake."

"Just putting it out there, I ain't being Prince Charming," Dean called back before walking to the door pretty much by himself.

Priya chuckled but then started to trip over a small carton of erasers. Sam hurried back in and tried to clear a path for her to get out through.

"What are we going to do about the body?" asked Sam.

"I have no idea. Leave it, I guess. No one comes down here and we'll be taking the knife, which is the main evidence. I disabled the security camera and deleted the recent footage before I came down so I think we should pretty much be okay," replied Priya, through small pants as Billy's weight started to really be felt. "Also, I think the fewer people we have to explain this ghost stuff to, the better. We don't need to tell Billy about this djinn or anything. Let him think he just fell unconscious."

And that's just what they did.

When the kid came round outside the basement toilets, his first words hadn't been anything like 'where am I?'

No, he preferred to go with 'Priya? Why does my head feel like someone's swung a bat at it? Did you swing a bat at it?' to which Priya had rolled her eyes and asked him why he'd fainted.

"But I didn't faint!" he exclaimed. "This weird guy grabbed me and-and I had this really vivid dream, like an acid trip or something."

"You must have really knocked yourself out pretty good there, idiot. And how the hell would you know what an acid trip felt like?" asked Priya, getting him into a sitting position.

Sam saw the way Dean was watching the proceedings warily yet with a modicum of understanding.

_At least he'll believe what I'd said about ghosts and stuff now._

Billy came to reluctantly accept their story after much nagging from Sam and Priya, and soon they had all made their way up the stairs and through the school. They parted ways with Sam surreptitiously passing the carving knife to Priya before waving her and Billy goodbye.

They walked most of the way in silence, both brothers lost in their own thoughts. Sam was mainly thinking about how awful it would have been if Dean had died down there, cold and unhappy as life slowly drained away. From the guilt wavering in Dean's eyes, he had a sneaking suspicion Dean might be thinking the same thoughts regarding Sam.

But then his expression cleared and his cheeks twitched into a shaky grin. "That genie thing ought to be a regular on LA Ink."

Sam pressed his lips together in what Dean was sure to call a 'bitchface' but was really merely an unambiguous expression of annoyance. "That's not funny."

Dean shrugged. "It's a little funny."

They walked up their street and were making their way across the driveway when Dean stopped and spoke again, his voice near to cracking. "What you did down there, risking your life like that, I-you-" He paused, scuffing his shoes against the pavement. "I dunno how to say this…" Dean looked up into Sam's eyes and spoke softly, "I guess I'm just really proud of you, little bro."


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for child abuse and fire. Also, spoilers for maybe the first few minutes of the pilot (I'm guessing that won't really bother all that many people). 
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who has left me feedback, I really appreciate it.

Feeling restless, Dean rolled over on the bed and clicked the button on top of his ( _his!_ ) clock and saw that midnight was approaching. He'd soon have completed a day of being seventeen.

That was weird to think. A few years ago, if someone had told him he'd be spending his seventeenth birthday in a bed that wasn't co-occupied by another man he'd have laughed in their face and tried to charge them for wasting his time.

And yet here he was, having finally gotten through a birthday without being reminded that this was the anniversary of his mother's death.

_Her murder. You were born with blood on your hands, whore._

Knowing his mind wouldn't let him rest in peace, Dean slid out of the bed and went over to the windowsill. He pressed his fingers against the cold window, watching the halos of condensation appear around the places where skin touched glass, and looked up at the stars, the odd sodium streetlamp doing little to dampen the beauty of the night sky.

Some said that when people died, they became stars. Dean knew that wasn't true. Stars were formed from masses of dust and gas collecting to form their very own fusion reactor, they learnt as much in physics. But still, maybe his mum was one of those tiny specks of light, watching as this day came round year after year.

She'd probably smile at what a pleasantly mundane day he'd had. Sure, it wasn't like other people's birthdays; there had been no presents, no cards, no cake or embarrassingly loud singing. Hell, no one had even wished him a happy birthday. But that was all fine because today, in all its banality, was still the best birthday he'd ever had.

He looked up and counted out the seventeen brightest stars as he recalled the earliest birthday he could remember.

_He watches the second hand tick along the clock face until it reaches his number. Six. That's how old he is today. A big kid now. Big enough to reach the bottom of the clock face._

_Dean hadn't even known it was his birthday until he'd walked into his year one classroom and seen his name written on the beige (that's what his teacher calls it but to Dean it looks a bit like a yucky brown. A bit like his puke does when he's been hungry for a while and eats too much in one go) board that has the name of whoever's birthday it is that day._

_The teacher asks another question. She asks which 'w' question word has she missed out on the whiteboard._

_It's easy. The answer's 'why'. 'Why couldn't she remember such an easy word in the first place?' seems like a far better question to ask._

_Dean doesn't put his hand up. Instead, he draws a picture of a horse in the corner of his page. His father used to work with horses, though he doesn't go into work very often now. There aren't any colouring pencils out so he can't colour it in. If he squints at it, it looks a bit like an elephant. He stores that away to tell his mummy about it before he goes to sleep. Maybe she can pick which animal it was meant to be?_

_The teacher asks another question and Dean doesn't listen again. He's not clever like the other kids, he's really dumb and he knows the teachers know it too. He once heard one of them whisper to another that he might be a 'returd'. Dean reckons he must be at least a little bit stupid, seen as he doesn't know what 'returd' means and can only giggle at the 'turd' hidden in the word._

_"Dean, is something funny?" the teacher asks him. She looks angry and that really scares Dean so he quickly shakes his head and looks back down at his elephant-horse._

_He knows better than to laugh out loud like that. He doesn't get why he's so dumb and forgets things like that all the time._

_Even then, 'turd' is a bit of a funny word. So is 'fart'. And 'poo'. And-_

_His thoughts are cut off when the teacher picks him to answer the question._

_Which is hard, because he doesn't know what the question is._

_Dumb. Dumb. Dumb._

_But he stares at the board and he thinks he can guess what the answer will be. The green pen shows words like 'isn't' and 'can't' linking up with phrases like 'is not' and 'cannot'. Only 'they're' has nothing written next to it, so Dean hesitantly says, "They are?"_

_"Good boy! That's really good, Dean!" The teacher seems very happy that he got that right, even though he took some time trying to figure out the question. Almost too happy._

_Dean ignores the anger rumbling in his stomach that makes him want to jump up and tell his teacher that he's not really that stupid. But it's wrong to lie, so he doesn't do anything._

_Instead, he thinks of what he'll ask for when he gets home today. He knows how birthdays work. People get presents and eat lots of cake and pass around chocolates. That might not be how his birthday worked, but that was okay. As long as he got what he really wanted, he'd be very, very, happy. Even happier than his teacher had sounded when he'd answered the question right._

_The bell signalling the end of school rang when the minute hand was at thirty and the hour hand was between three and four. Dean stays for a few seconds, watching the longest hand on the clock point at his special number, before leaving the classroom and starting to walk home._

_As he puts his arms around himself in a great big hug, he thinks it might be good to just ask for a jumper for his birthday. January feels really cold in just a shirt._

_No. He really wants this, even more than he wants to be warm. Everyone always did this with their parents. Everyone had their favourites and they'd tell each other them and laugh about the best bits while Dean sat in the corner and tried to put the bits that were mentioned together. It was a bit like a jigsaw puzzle, but it was one he could never finish._

_When he gets to the door, he gets on his tiptoes (a bit like a ballerina but that's really girly so he decides it's not really like a ballerina) and unlocks the door, trying to stop his fingers from shaking. They've gone a little blue, but they've done that before and all Dean has to do is stick them in his mouth for a little bit and they'll come out gooey and red again._

_Once he's inside, he closes the door and takes off his shoes. They're really tight now and his toes are starting to hurt from curling up for so long. He doesn't know what to do about that, so he'll try to ignore it for now._

_His father's in the living room, sleeping on the couch. Dean sees him, then sees the whip leaning against the corner a couple of metres away. He shudders and feels all tingly, like he's going to be sick. The whip has not been used often, but the few time it has, it's left Dean crying like a big baby and wishing his father would just go back to using his fists._

_The memories scare him and Dean doesn't want to think about them so he leaves the room and goes to put his little drawing with the picture of his mummy. She'll probably like it, though she'll wish it was blue, because that's his mummy's favourite colour._

_When he comes back, his father has started to stir. This is probably a good time to ask him for his present, he might be in a good mood after sleeping. Dean shakes his shoulder a little and his father starts to wake up._

_But the moment he opens an eye, Dean knows it was a bad idea. His eyes have those wiggly red lines again that he gets when he's been drinking a lot of that yellow fizzy stuff in those dark brown bottles. Now he's nearer, he can smell it on his father's breath too. Dean starts to back away but it's too late._

_"Whaddya wan'?" The words sound all jumbled up together but Dean's okay with that. He's learnt how to work out what his father's saying even when he's not feeling very well._

_"I-I just thought that, as I'm six today, you could-" he stops and bites his lip, he can see his father getting mad. "You could read me a story?" His father's getting off the sofa now and Dean takes another step back. "Any story! We never do anything like that and everyone in school does an-an-and I thought it might be fun," he adds in a rushed mumble._

_His father reaches him, those red squiggles in his eyes seem to have gotten bigger, and pulls his arm back. Dean knows what's coming and he braces himself._

_The punch comes and Dean falls back on his bottom. His tummy hurts now and he wants to be sick even more, but his father isn't done yet so he stands up again and tries to listen like Father wants._

_"First you take her away from me, then you complain about how I haven't given you enough already?" Father's hand lashes out and Dean feels his head jerk to the side before the familiar, tingly, pain starts up on the cheek._

_Dean just nods and leaves before he makes his father even more mad by crying or anything like that._

_Later that day, as the shorter hand on the clock reaches ten and the longer hand reaches two, Dean lies down on the carpet and shivers a little to try and get warm._

_It had been a stupid plan anyway. His father was too busy to read stupid stories to him. Dean was such a 'returd' for even asking him about it._

_He closes his eyes and tries to think about something else. His first thought is the picture with the big smile, like his mum had just said 'cheese' before the photo was taken. He wonders what made her so happy that she was smiling like that despite being stood next to his father, who had always seemed so big and scary and strict to him. Maybe his mummy was a lot better at following the rules and not being a 'fucked up bastard' than he is. Or maybe it was just because she was older and older people can't be hit like children can._

_He thinks about the song his father sometimes sings. Dean doesn't know where he heard it, but he always sings it when he's sad so it must be important to him._

_Dean's a little bit sad now, so maybe it's okay for him to sing it to himself, even if he can't remember all the words like his father can._

_"Hey dude, don't make it sad… take a la la and make it better. La la la, la la me into your heart…"_

_Slowly, Dean's eyes drift shut._

One of the first things Dean had done after Mrs Winchester had told him he had full access to the internet was to look up the lyrics and learn them.

"Hey Jude," he whispered, his breath forming a white fog on the windowpane, "Don't make it bad, take a sad song and make it better-"

"What are you singing?" Sam's head popped round the door, the rest of him soon followed.

"Nothing," Dean said, his voice breaking out of its whisper. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

Sam shrugged. "Couldn't sleep." Sam walked slowly through the room in the dark and came over to the window. "Was it Hey Jude?"

Dean nodded and looked back out onto the silent streets.

"Cool, that used to be my mum's favourite song," he said as he hoisted himself onto the windowsill.

"Really? I didn't think ma'am was into The Beatles."

"No, not her, I mean the mum that  _gave birth_ " Sam scrunched his face at the horrifying thought, "to me. I was actually born in America, some place in Kansas," he said casually, swinging his legs out in front of him. "I thought you knew that already?"

Dean shook his head, trying to take the information in. "So ma'am's not your real mum? Is sir your real dad?"

Sam shrugged. "They're both my  _real_ parents. They've raised me since I was a baby and I didn't even know I wasn't their biological kid until a couple of years ago," he said stoutly, his eyes narrowing slightly with defensiveness. "Family doesn't end with blood."

"Sorry, sorry," mumbled Dean. "So what happened to your, uhh, birth parents?"

"They died in a fire. My dad was called John Winchester and he'd been in the Marines, which I thought was pretty cool. My mum was Mary Winchester and Mum says she used to sing Hey Jude to me to get me to go to sleep."

"I'm really sorry they passed away," Dean whispered.

"It's okay, I can't miss what I don't remember. The only things I know are from what Mum and Dad have told me. They used to have a house in Kansas, near to a garage where my dad used to work as a mechanic. My mum used to take a lot of pictures of me and send them to Dad-" Sam saw Dean's puzzled look and added, "Dad over here, John's brother. But anyway, one day there was a big fire in the house and they both died, but somehow I was completely fine, just had a bit of blood on my lip. Mum calls me her 'miracle child' because of that. My birth parents hadn't made wills so I was given to the closest living relative and that was Dad."

Dean tried to quash down the panic he felt rising at the thought of the kid next to him dying. "I'm glad you're alive," said Dean, gruffly.

Sam flashed him a quick smile and exhaled quickly. "So am I."

They both looked out onto the sleeping town, lost in their own thoughts.

Dean felt his stomach crumple with guilt as he thought about his wish to the djinn.

 _I wish I was their_ real _kid, like Sam._

He'd been such an idiot. Sam wasn't their biological kid. Hell, Sam wasn't even a blood relative of ma'am's. He was adopted, just like himself, and yet he'd always understood that one didn't need to draw a line in the sand where one wasn't needed. Maybe one day he could learn to do the same.

_Don't kid yourself. Sam's the kind of kid they love and deserve. You're a beat up hooker who gets their son in danger._

It had been over three months since Sam had risked his life to save Dean's. Three months and still not a day passed where Dean didn't find himself wondering what on Earth made him worth saving. That too from some stupid, twisted, hallucination in which Dean had somehow managed to wish their lives to be swapped.

_You didn't mean to._

Yeah, but he had. And even then, the first sight he saw when he came to was Sam's concerned face as he untied him. From the moment he'd dived in front of that car he'd known that he'd give his life for the midget without a second's thought. He just hadn't expected the idiot to do the same for him.

Dean swallowed and prayed that the Winchesters never found out how much shit the little guy went through because of him.

_Selfish. Always so selfish. It's like your- what was that phrase Billy used?- ah, yeah, pièce de résistance._

Next to him, Sam suppressed a yawn.

Dean leaned away from the window and looked at his brother. "It's way past your bedtime, midget. The ghosts come out after midnight and eat kids with dimples."

Sam smirked. "I told you all that supernatural stuff was real."

"I was waiting for an 'I told you so'. Surprised it took this long in coming," Dean grinned. "But you should go to sleep soon. Your mum and dad won't exactly be delighted if you roll out of bed at eleven tomorrow."

"Why do you always say ' _your_ mum and dad'? Why not 'mum and dad' like I do?" asked Sam, the pale moonlight highlighting the wrinkles in his scrunched brow.

Dean bit back a bitter laugh as he reached into the pocket he'd sewn into his pyjamas and ran his index finger over the cold metal.

_Oh God, where to start?_

To be honest, he didn't even want to start, so he just shrugged and said, "I dunno. Makes it easier to not get attached."

"Why would you not want to get attached?" Sam's brow furrowed further, before his eyes widened with fear. "You're not thinking of leaving us, a-are you?" he whispered.

"Nah, I'd never want to leave," Dean said softly, wondering quite how his inner walls and defences had been smashed in without him even noticing. He was growing weak. "Besides, don't you need to wake up early for a dentist's appointment tomorrow?"

Sam's eyes blinked blankly and Dean knew that his change of topic hadn't gone unnoticed. Still, the kid nodded and stifled another yawn.

"You can take my bed if you want," Dean waved an arm at the double bed that still felt far too big to be wasted on him.

Longing danced along with the reflection of the streetlamps in those hazel eyes as Sam stared at the bed. But then he looked down at the carpet next to it, shook his head, and headed for the door.

"G'night, Dean."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S What do you guys all think of the season finale? I have no words... it's a dream come true and my worst nightmare all wrapped in one.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning: (SPOILER ALERT)** This chapter contains the description of a stillbirth. I understand that this is a very sensitive topic and I have tried to handle it as carefully and accurately as I can. If you feel this topic will upset you, please skip to the next chapter.

The sponge layer of the trifle had unfortunately already made the transition from moist to soggy by the time Michael scooped up the last spoonful.  February was almost on its way out and with deadlines approaching, Michael found himself feeling overworked and underappreciated.

To be fair, it was still better than the November deadline crunch last year. Lucas Pyper had still been his boss back then, breathing down his neck like an overly-friendly schoolteacher. Walking into the office and feeling those predatory eyes homing in on him every morning, snide comments being dropped about his performance here and there, had started to drive him up the wall.

Jane had noticed when it got to its worst with the impending deadline and started asking him if things were alright. Michael, who could lie to anyone barring his wife and mother, had told her and pleaded with her to not do anything about it. She, of course, hadn’t listened. Instead, she’d grabbed the keys to her baby, told him not to wait up for too long, and left for the Pyper residence. She had returned a couple of hours later, her face set in stone, and gone straight to bed.

Within a week, Pyper had voluntarily transferred to another department.

Jane Winchester really scared him sometimes.

Michael scraped up the last of the cream just as Dean walked back out of the kitchen, wiping his wet hands on his jeans. For the better part of last year, Dean had repeatedly asked to do the washing up and every refusal of theirs had been met by an offer to do some other chore to earn his keep. Finally, around Christmas, he’d started to accept that they were never going to let him do more than his fair share but he still insisted on taking his own plate into the sink and washing it. Jane and Michael had both been a little concerned over his desperate need to please, but Michael had convinced her to let it go. After all, Michael had argued, as long as he was only cleaning up after himself and no one else, they ought to let him have things his way sometimes.

Dean leaned against the doorframe and looked at each of them in turn before settling his eyes on Jane. “Uhh, ma’am,” he said, clearing his throat as he spoke.

Jane looked up from the second helping of dessert. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“I was just thinking-” Dean glanced down at the carpet and swallowed. He looked up again. “That, maybe, I could, you know, try learning to drive the Impala?”

“But-” Jane put down her spoon and started to respond but Dean was already speaking.

“Forget it, doesn’t matter. I mean the Impala’s probably worth  _millions,_  you wouldn’t want me wrecking it. I’m an idiot, sorry.” The words fell out of the kid’s mouth like a waterfall while a light blush started to spread across his cheeks.

“Dean, c’mere,” said Jane, putting an arm out towards the boy. Dean came over slowly and opted to stand by her side, but Jane was having none of that. She wrapped an arm round his waist and pulled him in. “That’s not what I meant. We’d be perfectly happy for you to learn to drive and of course we can teach you in the Impala. But you’re not seventeen yet. When you are, we’ll definitely apply for your provisional licence.”

Dean looked down at her (he was nearing six foot now and was easily on par with Michael, much to his dad’s secret chagrin), confused. “But-but I’m seventeen now. It’s okay, I get it, you don’t trust me with the car and I don’t blame y-”

Jane interrupted and said what was on both their minds. “What? You’re sixteen, Dean.”

The kid shook his head. “I turned seventeen just over a month ago,” he whispered. “I thought you guys knew.”

Guilt started to form a heavy pit in Michael’s stomach. He shifted uncomfortably as he remembered the birth certificate Lucas had handed him nearly ten months ago.

_24 th January. Written clear as day._

Dean deserved better than a father who forgot his son’s birthday. No wonder the kid refused to call him dad.

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” it was Michael’s turn to whisper, “I completely forgot. I’m really so, so sorry.”

Dean shrugged. “It’s fine, I had a great birthday anyway.”

“Did Billy and Priya organise something for you at school then?” asked Jane.

“Um, not exactly. Billy was a bit busy with Jess’s birthday and I don’t know if Priya knew.”

“You and Jess share a birthday?” asked Sam. “That’s so cool! It’s like all the people I like were born on the same day,” he grinned, then seemed to realise what he’d said and hurriedly tried to change the subject before the rest of them noticed him blushing. “But why didn’t you tell us on the day? You didn’t even get any presents!” the kid exclaimed, looking like the biggest sacrilege possible had occurred.

“I dunno, birthdays have never been a day I really celebrated,” Dean mumbled awkwardly. “Besides, I thought you guys already knew and didn’t care,” he said, then added earnestly, “not that I mind. I mean, you guys have been way nicer to me than I deserve after what I’ve done. I’d totally get it if you didn’t care, it’s cool.”

The guilt in the pit of his stomach grew ever deeper as he watched Dean’s attempts at nonchalance.

“You’ve not done anything, son,” said Michael. “I’m really sorry I forgot but, like Sam said, you should have told us on the day.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “And then what? Have you guys tell me that this was the day I killed my mother? Do you know how nice it was to have a birthday where that wasn’t brought up?”

The room froze. Michael could feel Sam’s inquisitive stare boring into him but he and his wife only had eyes for the broken boy in front of them. The aforementioned boy was glaring at them, blinking intermittently to stop his eyes from brimming over.

Jane broke the silence. “Michael, will you please take Sam upstairs?” Jane asked softly, her eyes not leaving Dean’s. “I think Dean and I need to have a talk.”

Michael piled up the three remaining bowls and dumped them in the kitchen sink for later. He then waited for Sam to join him at the bottom of the stairs.

Sure enough, Sam joined him a couple of seconds later, questions burning in his eyes. “Why did De-”

“Upstairs.”

They traipsed upstairs and entered Sam’s room. The older Winchester shut the door behind him as the younger one switched on the light and sat on the bed.

“Why did Dean say that he’d killed his mum? Is he an axe-murderer or something?” asked Sam, his eyes lighting in a way that Michael found decidedly scary. Sometimes he found himself reminded of quite how much of his brother had made its way into his son.

“Does Dean seem like an axe-murderer to you?” Michael sat next to the floppy-haired kid and tried to take the sensible approach. It failed.

“No… But it’d be cool if he was! We’d be like Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, I’d be the detective and he’d be the murderer!” Sam bounced a little on the bed with a large grin.

 _The sugar has definitely hit him. I have_ got  _to shift to recipes with less sucrose._

“That’s not the point. And besides, you're not even near old enough to be watching Hannibal yet,” Michael tried his best to sound stern but after twelve years of failing, he knew he was unlikely to succeed now.

“I don’t. But Nick’s mum and dad let him stay up late and watch whatever he wants.” Sam said with a quick glance up to see if his message had sunk in.

Michael rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. To go back to your first question, Dean’s mum died during childbirth. Complications can arise and unfortunately, in her case, they couldn’t be solved.”

Sam’s eyes were wide in awe. “I’m glad I don’t have to give birth,” he whispered.

“You should have a lot of respect for women for being able to go through with that.”

Sam nodded before stopping suddenly. “But I still don’t get one thing. Dean was just a baby when he was born, right?” he tilted his head and looked up at his dad, who was currently suppressing a smile. Sam Winchester, who could reel off a list of his favourite laws passed in the twentieth century, still felt the need to clarify the silliest things. “But then why does he say he killed his mother like it was something he had a choice in?”

“Do you remember what your first words were, Sam?”

Sam crinkled his eyes and then shook his head.

“Exactly. It took you eight months to start saying your first words and you can’t remember that. We’re talking about something Dean did at birth, do you think he has any recollection of what he did?”

Sam shook his head again, then said, “But why does he blame himself then?”

“Because some nasty people spent a lot of time convincing him that it  _was_ his fault. When people tell you something enough times, you start to believe it.”

Sam looked deep in thought so Michael took this opportunity to turn on the radiator and warm up his freezing hands. “Sam, make sure you tidy this up before you go to bed,” he said, gesturing at the glue stick and colouring pencils lying scattered on the floor next to an unfinished geography project.

“Yeah, I will,” said Sam. “And you told me, back when Dean had first come into the house, that sometimes we might need to persevere with him. I think that’s what we need to do now.”

Michael stood at the door, ready to leave. But first he shot his son a small smile.

“You’re a good kid, Sam.”

 

* * *

 

Jane sat on the sofa and looked up at her older son, who had refused her offer to sit on the couch and was now standing awkwardly against the wall instead. He held her gaze for a few seconds before dropping his eyes and squeezing them shut.

She cleared her throat and spoke. “Dean, why did you never tell us that this is how you felt?”

Dean shrugged. “You never asked. ‘Sides, it didn’t seem like something worth saying.”

“Why do you think things are always your fault?” she asked, feeling guilt build up in her for the second time that day. This time it was for her utter lack of parenting skills.

_‘You never asked.’_

_You were too wrapped up in trying to be a laidback parent that you forgot that your son was not okay. You forgot that sometimes you needed to be strong for your son and ask the questions you didn’t want to hear the answers to. You forgot that Dean would never come to you with his worries, that he doesn’t trust you enough to come of his own accord._

_You never asked._

“Things aren’t  _always_ my fault,” grunted Dean, bringing her back to the present conversation. “I didn’t lead to the extinction of the dinosaurs or start the war in Iraq. Bush is to blame for both of those.” Bless him, he tried so hard for a cocky grin but all Jane could see was a pained grimace on the face of a kid who’d forgotten he was just that.

“You know what I mean,” she tried to keep her voice even. “You’re not to blame for her death.”

“Yeah, right,” scoffed Dean, before sighing and continuing. “She was pushing me out when her number was called, ipso facto, it’s my fault she’s dead.” He stopped and scrunched his face up in an exaggerated frown. “Is  _ipso facto_ even the phrase I’m looking for? Gotta ask Sammy…” he shrugged.

“Don’t change the subject, Dean,” said Jane, quietly. She could understand. Dean’s way of dealing with things was to not deal with them at all. He’d bury everything deep inside him and try to pretend he’d forgotten or didn’t care. But there were times when Jane simply couldn’t let him carry on like that.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just-” whispered Dean, looking down again. “It’s just, I dunno, I’ve always been told that I’m the reason she’s dead. And it makes sense. If she’d never had me, she’d be alive. My father would be happy. He’d probably not drink so much and he’d still have his job. Things would just, you know, be better if I’d died and she’d lived,” he mumbled at the ground.

Jane shook her head, tears beading in the corners of her eyes as the floodgate of memories was opened.

_The positive pregnancy test. Jumping and screaming and running to Michael, yelling and hugging and kissing him until he gently gets her to sit down and show him the little blue cross._

_Yoga and ante-natal classes and breathing exercises and meditation and all the other crap expectant mothers go through. Swearing as her old clothes stop fitting and she’s forced to go shopping. Michael smiling and telling her she looks radiant. Jane rolling her eyes and telling him to fuck off, all the while leaning into his arms, wondering if the baby will look more like him or her._

_The baby kicking for the first time. That’s when it really, finally, hits her that there is another person growing inside of her. Someone she will have full responsibility for, to raise with love and care and tenderness. It scares her. It scares her to think that this baby will grow up and leave her someday. It scares her to think of ever living without her child. But the baby kicks again and Jane knows that, despite the inevitable heartbreak, she’s ready. She takes her husband’s hand and places it over her stomach. She watches as his eyes grow wide and he goes through the same thought process. But, after a while, he smiles and leans down and tells the kid to not hurt its mother too much. Yeah, they’re ready._

_The bump growing bigger and heavier, ankles getting thicker and walking up the stairs harder. She finds she wants to eat_ everything _._

_The day the kicking stops. She lies in bed, waiting for hours for any sign of movement. Fluid starts leaking out later that night. It’s not urine, she’s sure of that. It’s pink for a start. They rush to the hospital, dreading what it might be._

_Her worst fears are confirmed. Amniotic fluid. Placental complications. Stillbirth. They’re all such clinical words. Cold and harsh and sterile like the walls around her, like the hollowness inside._

_Holding her. It was a her. And she was beautiful. Blonde, curly hair. Cold, dead fingers. She still can’t find it in herself to cry._

_Coming home, Michael opens the door and offers her a hand. She bats it away and picks up the post. The first letter’s from Kansas. She knows what’s inside. Fingers fumbling, she sits down on the couch and opens the envelope. The photographs tumble out into her lap. Her chubby three month old nephew grins up at her. She finally lets the tears fall._

_She knew the heartbreak would come, she just hadn’t expected it so soon._

“Don’t you ever say that, Dean. Don’t you ever.”

Dean nodded hurriedly, his eyes torn between submission and confusion. Jane patted the seat cushion next to her and waited for Dean to sit down. He did.

_Though more than an arm’s length away._

Jane regretted the harsh tone. “I didn’t mean to sound like that. I’m not telling you off.” A little bit of the guilt subsided as Dean’s shoulders relaxed. “But you really can’t imagine the pain that your child dying can bring. A few months before Sam came into our lives-- wait, you know that Sam’s adopted, right?” Dean nodded so she continued. “Well, yeah, a little bit before he joined our family, I gave birth to a stillborn baby girl.”

Those green eyes widened and darted between hers, searching for a lie, a joke.

“At the time, I’d have given anything to have my daughter back. My life would have been a small cost.” Dean’s lip quivered as he nodded again in understanding. Jane shuffled over and put her arm around his shoulder. “I’m sorry I sounded angry, honey, but it just pisses me off to hear you say things like you wish you were dead, like that’d make anyone happier,” she said softly. “It doesn’t feel any better the other way round. And nobody is to blame, do you understand?”

Dean swallowed and looked up at her. Jane watched as his defences crumbled and the raw pain he’d held in for so long flooded his eyes. A couple of tears rolled over his cheeks and reached his chin. “Bu-but they always said… they always said that I was the reason she died. They called me a killer and murder an-and all sorts.” Jane felt the wet, bitter tears against her skin as he leaned in and rested his forehead against her shoulder, silent sobs wracking his body.

“You wouldn’t blame me for the stillbirth, would you? Is it my fault she died?” asked Jane. Dean shook his head against his shoulder. “I blamed myself for ages about it. It took Michael nearly a year to convince me that it wasn’t my fault. It’s not your fault either. Things like that happen and it’s nobody’s fault.” Jane wasn’t sure if she imagined it, but she’d swear she felt a tiny nod. She draped her other arm around him and cradled the affection-starved kid. “It’s okay, Dean,” she whispered into his hair. “It’s okay to talk about these things and it’s okay to cry.” She rocked him back and forth gently. “Take as long as you want.”

Not surprisingly, Dean quietened down pretty quickly. He wiped away the tears and ran his sleeve across his nose. “I better get my physics homework done,” he said, standing up. “Sorry about, you know,  _all this._ ”

“No need to apologise,” said Jane. “And I was thinking that we should go to the post office and pick up that provisional licence form,” she forced her voice to sound cheery. “You’ve got the whole weekend for homework.”

Of course, Dean picked up on it. “You don’t have to, ma’am.”

“Yeah, but I want to. And besides, I’m kind of looking forward to teaching you how to drive the Impala. How does that sound to you?”

Dean looked like Phil Rudd had just handed him his drumsticks and given him free access to his set.  That look was all it took for Jane to decide what the present for his twenty-first was going to be.

_He’ll look after you, baby, I know he will._

“That sounds  _awesome_ ,” he breathed out the last word. But then the awestruck look gave way to something infinitely sadder. “But you probably shouldn’t. I mean, I’ll probably crash it or something. I tend to fuck up everything so-”

“Do you care about the car?” Jane interjected.

 “Uh, yeah.” Dean rolled his eyes. “But that’s not the point. The point is, I screw-”

“Well that’s that then. If you care about her and we both take it slowly, we should be fine. I have faith in you, Dean. I trust you.”

She met his suspicious gaze and held it until the kid believed that there really was no catch. There came a small nod. “Okay,” he whispered, “I’ll go get my jacket.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Edit: I have thirteen exams coming up over the next three weeks. Hence, I'll not be posting for the next three weeks, but I'll be back on 24th June with an update to Tabula Rasa. Sorry about that.**


	30. Chapter 30

They were just stepping out of the closing post office, form in hand, when Mrs Winchester suggested stopping off at the second-hand music store at the far end of the market.

"I've got a couple of twenties and a tenner, I think," she said, fishing out the notes. "That's fifty-see, being a maths teacher has its perks. But anyway, that's enough to go a little crazy at that shop. I think nearly all the records are only a couple of quid anyway."

She walked ahead, leaving Dean to trail behind in amazement. This was nearly as weird as the time when Mr Winchester had taken him around some bookstores to replace the books he'd not been allowed to bring from the Pypers. It had felt so wrong to replace those cheap, crinkled paperbacks that either smelt like Max or Kate (or even a bin in a couple of cases) with crisp, white pages adorned with freshly printed ink. He still didn't open the books fully in case he creased the spines.

The shop had been around for nearly half a century now, a small, cramped place that was the owner's hobby rather than profession from the looks of things. Inside, the walls were lined with rows upon rows of CDs, cassettes and any size of vinyl record you'd care to mention. The centre of the room had tables lined up and stacked with every possible sort of music player imaginable. It was a little slice of heaven.

"Go crazy," said Jane. "Well, a little bit anyway. Just try to bear the budget in mind and we can meet up in a little bit and pool our stuff together." Dean gawked at her, waiting for a catch. She ignored the stare and gestured to her left. "That's where all the good stuff from the seventies is, I'll be over there if you need me."

With that, she walked away, leaving an awestruck Dean standing in the middle of the shop, hardly daring to move in case he broke something.

 _Whenever the catch comes –and don't kid yourself, it_ will _\- it's gonna be the mother of all catches._

The shopkeeper, a middle-aged lady with a blue tattoo underneath her right eye, had started watching him with a mild look of suspicion so Dean willed his feet to start moving. He walked over to the nearest section and started flicking absent-mindedly through the CDs.

Shit. The newest releases in rap and hip-hop. Fat chance of finding anything there. Dean didn't like to think of himself as a music snobas such, just someone who had  _delicate sensibilities_. Still, when one had grown used to hearing the same four Led Zep, Nazareth, Blue Oyster Cult and AC/DC albums over and over again, one struggled to adjust to the crap the music industry seemed to be pumping out nowadays.

_Yeah, sure, that's why you were singing along to Sammy's Taylor Swift CDs in the shower the other day._

_I was not! Blasphemy!_

_Dean, you can lie to others, but you can't lie to yourself, idiot._

_Fuck._

Okay, fine, he  _occasionally_ sang along to some of the songs on Radio One, but that wasn't because he enjoyed them, he more  _tolerated_ them. Yeah, that was it.

Thinking of Sam, he shuffled over to the nineties section and started rifling through until he got to 'W'. Soon enough, he found the CD he was looking for and was ready to head back to ma'am, who was still busy looking for what Dean presumed would be one of the Boston albums, seen as she was in the front bit of the eighties section and seemed to be doing a botched job of humming 'Peace of Mind'.

As he started to walk over to join her, his eye caught the little device sitting on the edge of one of the tables. This one wasn't quite silver and blue like his old one, instead it was metallic grey and a little smaller. Nonetheless it was a Sony Walkman, and Dean found his fingers itching to pick up it and press the little 'play' button like he'd done countless times before.

_It takes Dean a week to finally grow a pair and pick up the device. He's been staring at it almost constantly, trying to decipher the trick, wondering when Max was going to burst through the door, a cocky smirk on his face, a laughing Kate in tow. It doesn't happen._

_The thing seems small and fragile and a little scratched. He can't possibly anticipate how big an effect it'll have on his life. It'll earn him extra lashes when he doesn't hear Mr Pyper calling for him to come serve dinner, it'll be his sole companion on cold nights when he's thinking too hard about his pipe dream, it'll even make him cry and he'll find himself skipping songs like 'Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap'. (He asks Billy about that song later and Billy reckons that they're singing about a contract assassin but to Dean the title has always hit a slightly different note)._

_He picks it up and wipes off the few specks of dust that have settled over the last seven days. It's funny how the dirtiest room in the house belongs to the cleaner. The irony of that never fails to make Dean smile. Still, he likes a bit of dirt, he can't taint the room much further with his touch this way._

_Dean slots the earphones into his ears like he's seen his classmates do. They feel a little odd at first, as if they'll fall out the moment he closes his jaw, but a little jiggling gets them in properly. The first cassette he picks up happens to be the Blue Oyster Cult one. He pushes it in like the little white arrow indicates and hits 'play'._

_It's completely deafening. Dean yanks the earbuds out with a yelp and glances furtively at the door. Heart beating faster than a horse's hooves at full gallop, he hits 'stop' and scrambles over the couch, hearing the exposed spring rip into his shirt but not caring. He leans over and puts the cassette player back where Max had left it and quickly sits back on the unbroken cushion, waiting with dread for someone to come rushing through the door._

_He feels so stupid. The rules are simple enough for even an idiot like him to understand. And one of the big ones is to make as little noise as possible. Break the rules and he'll find himself back with his father, spreading his legs for cash he'll never see again. It's so simple and yet he still manages to fuck it up. He's probably what his biology teacher would call an 'evolutionary dead end'._

_He doesn't touch the Walkman for another week. Another week of no repercussions. Max comes in at one point to tell him that he has to stay quiet because a couple of sir's colleagues will be calling in for a little chat._

_"Mother also says that you can't go to sleep until the washing up's done after they leave," says Max, looking around the room. He sees the Walkman and looks kind of sad. "You didn't like the present?"_

_Dean doesn't know what to say to that so he just stares in silence._

_Max's eyes blaze. "I should have known you'd not be capable of being grateful. Fine then, I'll just bin it," he says, looking genuinely hurt. Dean wonders if the gift was just that, a little present to say thank you. The part of his brain that still lives with a drunken father rarely shuts up so maybe paranoia's got the better of him yet again._

_"No, I'm sorry, it-it's just really loud," says Dean, getting up from his knees quickly despite their complaints. He thinks about adding the bit about thinking it was just a trick, but why give the kid ideas?_

_Max picks up the Walkman with none of the gentleness with which Dean held it. Dean reckons that maybe when you own loads of stuff, a cheap old cassette player just matters less. "You should have just turned down the volume," Max says, showing him the button and pressing it a few times._

_The door chime sounds and Max quickly hands the mess of Walkman and wires back to Dean. "Damn, father told me to be there when the guests arrived. I've gotta go, stay quiet." With that, he walks out and closes the door firmly behind him._

_Dean looks down at the device again and presses the button that reduces the volume a few more times. He pops the earphones in again and hits play. He can barely hear it this time. He slowly lowers himself onto the sofa, mindful of the sound of depressing springs, and gently increases the volume._

_A slow grin spreads across his face. He gets why kids his age obsess over music now. Music carries with it liberation. He can barely make out the lyrics, but that doesn't matter. What matters are the drums and the guitar riffs and the cymbal clashes and how they must never, ever, stop. He leans back and loses himself to the song, holding the Walkman tightly in his hand._

_He's gonna try doubly hard on Max's next assignment._

"Dean? Have you got everything?" asked ma'am, breaking Dean out of his reverie. She walked over and frowned down at his hand. "You've just got one CD…" she strained her neck to look at it. Dean caught the movement and hurriedly handed the case over. "Tom Waits? I didn't know you were into his music."

"'S not for me," said Dean, "It's for Sam. I think his friend, Nick, lent him Rain Dogs and he's been listening to it on repeat for the last week or so. I swear he's actually sixty or something, he can't just be twelve," Dean joked.

Instead of laughing, ma'am just looked kind of sad. "But what about for yourself?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't need anything, you guys have an awesome cassette collection already."

"Are you sure? Is something up? You were staring at that Walkman for ages."

_Super. Now you're embarrassing yourself in public._

"Uh, nothing, I just had one like that before, that's all," Dean glanced up at the device again with bitter longing.

"Where is it now?" Ma'am asked absentmindedly, fumbling for her purse. "Here, hold this," she said, handing him the records she'd stacked up.

The records were pretty light in his hands and the aged covers had a sort of friendly feel to them. "It's probably in a bin at the Pyper place. It had been a present from Max." He didn't know why he'd added that last bit, it just somehow felt important.

"Why didn't you bring it with you?" Mrs Winchester was looking at him now, her eyes sad and searching.

"I thought you guys would break it or something when I did something wrong," mumbled Dean, dropping his gaze to the shop floor.

_I thought you guys were crazy for thinking of taking me in. I thought you guys had plans to make money by breaking me in again. Turns out you guys really were crazy, but in a good way. And you didn't break me, you put me back together. And now you're letting me drive your car and buy CDs with your money and I'm so grateful I have no idea how I can possibly make this up to you._

He wasn't going to cry. Not in a shop with the lady with the greying hair watching, he  _wasn't._

Ma'am wrapped an arm around him and pulled him in for what felt like the millionth hug of the day. "Oh honey," was all she whispered into his hair before letting him go. "Why don't you go unlock the car, I'll bring along the stuff. Keep the trunk open for me, will you?"

Dean nodded and turned towards the door and headed out, digging the keys into the palm of his hand. He looked up and blinked rapidly until his eyes were back to normal. God, he was such a girl sometimes.

The car looked beautiful with the streetlights sketching streaks of orange onto the black body. Dean turned the keys and heard the familiar creak of the door opening. It felt weird to think he'd soon get to drive this thing. He sat down and waited for ma'am to arrive, sliding a Bon Jovi CD into the player for a couple of minutes of shameless self-indulgence.

Not long after, Dean found himself scrambling for the eject button, having nearly missed Mrs Winchester's entry over his lively rendition of You Give Love a Bad Name.

"Been busy?" she asked, grinning as she shut the door with another creak.

"Bon Jovi rocks, on occasion." Dean deadpanned.

"If you say so," said Mrs Winchester, reaching out to put a plastic bag in Dean's lap before grabbing the keys from the dashboard and starting up the ignition.

With clammy hands, he opened up the carrier bag and pulled out the little cassette player. Ma'am turned to look at him, a soft smile gracing pleasant features. Dean had never noticed that. She'd always looked so plain, the odd scar from scratched spots on her forehead, dull lips under a startlingly average nose. There was nothing that screamed 'remarkable' and yet Dean could see a tender beauty in her crow's feet and laugh lines.

"Thank you," croaked Dean, running his sweaty thumb over the case, watching faint blots of condensation form. "I-you-" he swallowed. Someone had gone out of the way, spent money they'd earned, to buy Dean something he didn't  _need_ , just because he'd kind of wanted it. Someone had gone to all that trouble and Dean here was still fumbling with words like an ungrateful idiot. "You didn't have to," he finished lamely.

Ma'am shifted the car into reverse and checked her blind spots. "It's nothing," she said, slowly reversing out. "I promise we won't break it."

Dean looked down at his lap and smiled at his own idiocy. He might not have known it back then, but he knew it now. These people, for whatever crazy reason he couldn't comprehend, had done good on their word and given him a home and a family. They'd said they wouldn't break him and they hadn't.

With one hand on the steering wheel, Mrs Winchester slotted the CD back into the player.

"Shot through the heart and you're to blame," she stepped on the accelerator and the car revved as it sped up down the empty road. "Darlin' you give love-" she looked expectantly at the younger passenger.

Dean rolled his eyes and fought the urge to grin. "A bad name."

Yeah, stupid as it might be, he trusted these guys.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an early update to make up for the hiatus.

Dean dried the dish and placed it on top of the other clean ones before picking up another off the dirty pile and starting to scrape uneaten chips into the bin. Gazing at the trail of grease left in their wake, he idly wondered how people could bring themselves to throw away food when so many begged for scraps.

After weeks of applying for jobs everywhere, he'd finally managed to find work in a small restaurant at the edge of town. On the whole, it appeared employers were too busy laying people off to be hiring new staff. He'd wandered from shop to shop, meeting the same condescending smile and polite rejection again and again. But his luck had turned when a new diner had opened up, ridiculously named 'Diners R Us', and needed someone who was willing to wash dishes and work at minimum wage. Dean had fitted both criteria and now found himself scrubbing away for four hours each Saturday and Sunday over the lunch hours.

He dipped his hands back in the soapy water and started to wipe off the grease with a sponge when Dominic, one of the cooks, came over and picked up the clean plate pile. To be honest, Dean didn't mind it here. Sure, the boss yelled a fair bit and smelt like cigarettes and alcohol, but the rest of the workers were nice and the work was menial and familiar. He ran the plate under the tap, watching the suds drain down the plughole, and reached over for the dishcloth when he was done.

"Hey, Dean," Dom called over. "The boss wants you to wipe down the tables."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Tell Ryan to get his ass in here and do it."

"You try telling him!" Dom yelled back, walking away with the plates balanced precariously between his hands and his chin.

With a huff, Dean soaked a couple of the cloths they used to wipe over the tables and slung them over his shoulder, feeling the water drip onto the garish blue and yellow uniform. It was easier to just do the job than to try and drag Ryan back in when he'd gone out for a smoke. It was kind of scary how the kid was a chain smoker by nineteen.

He headed out to the restaurant front and started wiping away at ketchup stains on the table in the corner. There was only one customer left, a middle aged man in a dirty overcoat and a couple of days' worth of stubble. He was slumped forward, sleeping with his head resting in his arms, a half empty pint of cider stood in front of him. Dean shuddered as he caught sight of the scar running across his forehead, seen only for a second before the man grunted and shifted in his sleep.

It was okay. He could deal with this. It couldn't be that man. It just couldn't. His mind was playing tricks on him and he was being an idiot and letting it. Better to just get on with his job and hope Ryan got back inside soon.

_He knows it's a nightmare but it feels so real that he can't hold back the tears. The man advances towards him, the knife glinting under the harsh fluorescent tube, the scarred skin on his face stretched into a terrifying leer. Dean tries to get his voice to work, to tell him to back the fuck off. But nothing more than quiet whimpers will come out. The client comes a little closer and Dean tries to lash out, to push him away. Before he's even managed to make contact, the man's grabbed his wrists and twisted them painfully behind his back. He feels the tip of the blade pierce his skin, the monster's warm breath whispering sick obscenities in his ear as he ruts against him. The fight drains out of him._

_He's so tired and pathetic and broken. What does it matter if he bleeds a little more?_

_Dean wakes with a start, his hand hovering over the small, round scar on his shoulder, his heart racing from the memory of the knife slowly digging in and being twisted round and round and round. He can't take it anymore. He can't stand waking up with sweat-soaked sheets and trembling hands._

_He reaches over onto the nightstand, grabs his mobile phone and dials Priya's number. It rings for a bit before she picks up._

_"Ungh," she grunts. "Dean? Is it Dean? 'Cause the phone said it was… but I might be dreaming, but I'm not sure, hullo?" she rambles, still half asleep._

_"Yeah, it's me," he says, trying to even his breathing. "Listen, I need your help. You've gotta teach me some self-defence."_

_"Wha- why? What's up, you okay?" she sounds more awake now. Dean feels pretty bad for having woken her, but she's one of the only people he fully trusts. He just hopes she won't ask too many questions._

_"I'm okay, I-I just really want to learn it. You think you could help me out?"_

_"'Yeah, 'kay. I'll be over t'morrow?"_

_"Thanks Priya, I owe you one."_

_"You betchur ass y' do. Now I'm gonna go back t'sleep, I'll see y' tomorrow." She can barely get the words out without slurring. Damn, that girl seriously needs her eight hours._

_"'Kay," he says, and she cancels the call._

_Dean leans back against the damp sheets as his heart rate returns to normal. He's incredibly grateful for the day Bookworm decided to come over and sit with him and Sam for lunch. He decides to save some of the money he's making from his job to get her the latest Stephen King book. He's already got some set aside to buy Sam his birthday present and a fair bit of it is going in sir and ma'am's communal change tray (a little blue tray they have in the hallway for loose change that anyone can contribute to or take from), though they have no idea. The rest he's saving up for university. Because he finally believes he's allowed to go now. He knows he's not too stupid and he's willing to work hard and he wants to come out of it with an engineering degree and as little debt as possible._

_God, so much has changed over the last year._

_True to her word, Priya arrives the next day and they move the coffee table out of the lounge to clear the space. They get going, this first session being about simple grabs and strikes, which generally go alright, despite the jolts of panic that course through him every time he sees hands darting towards him._

_It's the Easter holidays so she comes back in a couple of days to continue. They review the grabs and Dean does a decent job of defending himself, having practised a little with Sam. The attacks get harder and Dean finds himself on the floor more times than he likes. But she's there, pulling him back up again, telling him that he's doing well and he just needs to work on keeping a weather eye on her feet even when defending against her fists._

_Dean remembers to do that, but he also finds his eyes noticing other things. Little things. The thin strip of burnt skin on the back of Bookworm's right hand from when she spilt acid on it. The tiny grin that flits across her face every time he manages to defend against a surprise attack. The way the stomping, cumbersome Priya with the triple-knotted walking boots vanishes when she's fighting, replaced with speed and agility, her focus solely on her attacker and his weaknesses. The way her eyes appear black until you look close enough to see that they're actually a really dark brown._

_These sessions continue for the rest of the holidays and on most weekends after that. Dean's been getting better, to the point he even occasionally wins the odd sparring match here and there. He's doing his press ups and his crunches and he can feel his strength slowly increasing. He goes from clumsy, rushed attacks to precise, thought-out ones. His defences are consistent and his counter-punches rapid and well-aimed._

_But the nightmares don't go._

_In a way, this has all been in vain. He still wakes, trembling and afraid. They may have lessened since he's been with the Winchesters, but they never go away completely. At least once a fortnight he'll be visited by familiar spectres in his sleep, ghosts of the past that he can't just salt and burn away._

There was one in front of him now.

But it wasn't. Because he wasn't in Gildering and he wasn't a whore anymore. He needed to just bury the past and move on.

Trying his best to keep the rag still, he wiped the table next to the snoring man and then moved onto it. He scrubbed around the man and then slowly nudged his arm to wipe underneath him. The man just grunted in his sleep, raising his head a little, pulling up a trail of drool with him, before letting it fall again.

Dean gave in and decided to pretend he'd wiped that spot. Besides, it wasn't even his fucking job to wipe the tables. As he turned round and slung the cloth over his shoulder, the man's arm snaked forward and grabbed his wrist. Dean froze.

That face. The scar. The rough, rough hands. Gildering had been a small town and his father's contacts list ended up extending way beyond it. He'd been stupid to think he'd be able to outrun his past by getting a train ride away.

"I've seen y'b'fore. Where've I seen y'b'fore?" The man's words ran into each other.

He quashed the panic rising up within him and fought to recall his training. The grip tightened as he started to pull away, there would be finger-shaped bruises the next day.

_Shitshitshit_

He jerked back a little harder, but the man just started to pull him towards him, leering at his face, recognition and lust filling those half-dead eyes.

"Yer tha' Hall kid…" he whispered, glancing round to check no one was coming over. Dean held still, watching his ladders come crashing down as the snakes sent him back to square one. And he'd always end up back there, no matter how many sixes he rolled. "Got a talented set of mouth an' hands…"

This was it. With his arm frozen in place, Dean couldn't help but reflect on how pathetic he was. He couldn't fight back, couldn't escape, couldn't defend himself despite the hours Priya had put into him. All he could do was lie down and take it.

_Fuck that. You're never doing that again._

A burst of anger flared up with Dean, driving him into action. Recalling Priya's advice, he moved into the grab, twisting his arm up and hitting downwards, while simultaneously making sure his left fist connected with the man's nose in a solid snap punch.

"Fuck!" The word was wrenched from his lips as his head flew back. Dean hadn't hit hard enough to break anything, but it was enough to compel the man to let go and grab his face.

Dean edged backwards, watching his ex-client curse quietly and shoot him a sloppy, alcohol-laced, glare. He said something that was barely intelligible, gripping his nose and talking more to himself than to Dean.

But Dean had heard it and it was enough to let the fear loosen a little in his chest.

_'Can't be him. The Hall kid never fought back.'_

Running back into the kitchen before the man could correct his mistake, Dean slammed the doors behind him and leaned against them, trying to slow his racing heart.

"Hey, you okay?" asked Dominic, before jerking his head back to make sure the pancake landed in the pan as intended, nearly losing his chef's hat in the process.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay," Dean panted, trying to stop his eyes from jittering around the room from one employee to another, terrified he'd catch sight of another familiar face. Sliding his hand into his left pocket in an attempt to calm himself down, he felt the familiar blunt pain on the tips of his thumb and forefinger and slowly evened his breathing.

He walked over to the washing station and picked up the next plate, disposed of the pizza crusts, and dipped it in the water. The end of his shift couldn't come soon enough. He just wanted to get into the driver's seat of the Impala and slowly make his way home under the watchful eye of Mrs Winchester.

Finally, the clock struck four and Dean signed himself out. He cautiously pushed the kitchen doors open and entered the dining area of the restaurant again.

Empty.

Biting back a sigh of relief, he walked over to the entrance, trying to block out memories of that scarred face and those hungry eyes. That wasn't him anymore. Because the Hall kid never fought back, but Dean sure as hell did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I now have a bit more free time, I can get a bit more writing done. Hence, I'd like to ask if you guys like the regularity of an update every Wednesday or if you'd prefer slightly more erratic updates every three/four/five days?


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like erratic updates won, so I'll be updating as and when I can, hopefully every few days or so. Comments and feedback are hugely appreciated.

It was Sam's thirteenth birthday and they were all currently in the car, listening to Def Leppard as they drove to the coast for a day at the beach. As his birthday had fallen on a Friday, they had originally planned to have a birthday party that weekend. A couple of his friends could have made that date, but Jess and Nick were both busy and Sam didn't really want to celebrate without them there.

He looked down at the book in his hands and smiled. Dean had bought him Agatha Christie's 'Curtain' from the money he'd been saving up from his job. He'd wrapped it up in newspaper and far too much sellotape and included a small tag that read: 'I hope this helps explain why Jess likes Poirot so much'. Sam had blushed and sent a half-hearted glare Dean's way, but it wasn't enough to stop him from ripping into the present like an excited six year old.

Sam hadn't actually started reading it yet. He'd originally planned to start it on the journey down, but the music was loud, his mum's singing raucous, and the words too precious to only give half his attention to. No, he wanted to wait until he was at home, curled up in his bed, ready to drink in every syllable, cherish every letter, for this was a gift from a pain-in-the-ass older brother who knew him far too well.

"Hey, Sammy, you know they say that Def Leppard is the best seven-armed band out there?" Dean said with a grin.

_Okay, the 'pain-in-the-ass' part was definitely true._

"You know you're not meant to say things like that, Dean," replied Sam, clearly appreciating political correctness a lot more than his brother ever had.

"Aww, c'mon! You were thinking it," cried Dean.

Sam rolled his eyes and didn't bother to reply. Instead he looked out onto the approaching coastline, wondering how many demons one could hurt with all the salt water there was in the sea. Someone should just gather up all the supernatural things (the evil ones anyway, not the nice ones that were just unfortunate enough to have paranormal powers that they didn't want. Sam guessed there were probably some of those out there.) that could be hurt by salt water and drop them into the middle of the ocean.

"Did you know that you can kill some ghosts with fear?" he said, turning his head back round again.

"What are you meant to do? Jump out of a cupboard and go 'boo'?" quipped Dean.

"No, no, not like that. If a ghost is created due to fear, it can be killed by inducing that fear in them again."

"I like the 'jumping out at them wearing a bed sheet' idea better," said Dean, with a shrug. "You could be like Aslan from Narnia, just with more bed sheet."

Sam huffed. Older brothers could be so tiresome sometimes.

"Are you boys discussing vampires again?" their mum asked, her eyes not leaving the road.

There were vehement protests from both boys. Mum had recently taken to teasing them about how their interest in the supernatural really stemmed from a secret fixation on Twilight.

No matter how many times he did it, Sam would always find it quite difficult to lie to his parents. So his reply of "no, we were on about ghosts, and before you say anything else, we know they're not real, we just like reading about them," was accompanied with a sharp pang of guilt.

They finally rolled to a halt in a parking spot and the brothers tumbled out of the car, eager to stretch their legs after the long drive. Dean was probably going to be driving them home, seen as he was now merely weeks away from his driving test and was trying to get all the practice he could before the big day.

The beach was pretty empty, with most of the crowd being situated about a kilometre further down the coastline near the fairground rides and amusement arcades. Mum and Dad rolled out the beach mat and started to place their bags in top of it. Sam took off his shirt and trousers by the side, leaving him in his swimming trunks.

"Dean, you're coming swimming, right?" Sam asked when he saw Dean was still sat on the mat, squinting at a couple of girls in bikinis in the distance.

"Huh? Nah, I'll give it a miss," he said, his head turning slowly and taking in the view. "I didn't expect the sea to be quite this big," he added quietly.

Wait, so Dean had never seen to the seaside? But then how had he spent his summer holidays? Sam's summers had always included multiple trips to the beach. He couldn't even begin to imagine what it might be like to never have built a sandcastle or collected shells or jumped waves.

That was it. Dean was going swimming in the sea today.

"Dean, you've got to come! You've got your swimming trunks on and everything!" Sam said (okay, maybe it was closer to a whine). "Don't give me all that cra-" he caught his father's pointed look, "rubbish about how you don't do shorts. You're coming wave-jumping with me."

Dean reluctantly took off his trousers and dropped his shirt on top of them. "Fine, but the last one to the water smells like rotten fish!" he called back behind him as he started to sprint towards the vast, blue expanse.

Sam grinned and started to run but stopped abruptly when he caught sight of Dean's back. It was odd, now that he thought about it, but he'd never seen Dean without his shirt on. Sure, he'd seen glimpses of skin, and he'd once even knelt and started to pull his t-shirt off before Mum had stopped him. But this was the first time he could properly see the white scars upon pale flesh, the tendrils dancing as the boy's shoulders rippled as he ran.

Soon, Dean was too far off to be seen clearly, and Sam turned to his parents. Both of whom were staring at him, something akin to guilt in their eyes.

"What happened to Dean's back?"

"Nothing. Nothing, just-" Mum paused and looked helplessly at Dad, who just gave a small shake of the head back. "It's just- look, don't mention it to-"

She was still saying something but Sam had stopped listening. He was busy running towards the minuscule figure in the distance. The water splashed onto his toes and he panted for breath.

"Dean!" he called out.

Dean stopped swimming outwards and slowly made his way towards Sam, a large grin on his face. "There's something real fishy about you today, Sammy."

"How-how did you get those scars?" asked Sam, his eyes widening as he took in the shiny, marred skin.

The grin fell, replaced by a grimace. "You've never seen them before?" asked Dean. Sam gave a tiny shake of the head. "Yeah, actually, I guess not. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Leave it, it's in the past now."

"Someone hurt you, didn't they?" Sam's voice was cold. The ensuing silence from Dean gave him all the answers he needed. "If I ever find them, I-I swear I'll-"

"It was my fault, I did stupid things," Dean interjected, staring at the water as if willing a whirlpool to open up and suck him in.

Sam's hands balled up in fists of rage. He was about to start arguing when Dean looked up at him and gave him a small smile. "Anyway, weren't you going to show me how to jump waves?"

_So typical._

Sam wasn't stupid. He could see the avoidance for what it was. But he also knew he wasn't going to get any proper answers out of Dean today. He stared at the older kid, questions hovering over his lips, but those closed off green eyes were clear indicators that no further information was going to be divulged.

"You've got to jump forwards over each wave," he said, finally giving up. "You keep jumping until you get so deep you can't jump over them anymore." He gave a little demonstration and gestured for Dean to give it a go. He tried to do the same, but being in deeper water and having slightly mistimed it, the wave knocked Dean off his feet and Sam found himself laughing as he hauled his spluttering brother off his ass. "Yeah, that happens sometimes."

Dean shook Sam's arm off with a grumble of "it's a stupid game anyway", before stepping forward with his legs slightly parted to give it another shot. Sam watched the scarred back move away from him slowly as Dean got better at the game and started to move forward, the cool water lapping around his knees.

He wondered what else there was he didn't know about his brother.

* * *

The moment he'd seen the caption under her photograph, he'd known where she would be.

"Hey, they've got you down as 'Rapunzel'!" Billy called across, flapping his copy of the school yearbook at him, before returning to poring over everyone else's names and captions.

Dean shot him a quick smile before looking back down at the black and white pictures in front of him. He scanned the pages and searched out the relevant ones.

_Billy Moore, a.k.a. Ratatouille, Spock_

_Dean Winchester, a.k.a. Rapunzel, Hans Solo_

_Ash Spencer, a.k.a. Mark Zuckerberg, J.A.R.V.I.S._

_Priya Bhagat, a.k.a. Deep Blue, The Bearded Lady_

Her picture smiled back up at him, and he felt a wave of anger at the committee that had made the yearbook. Is this really what they needed to resort to for cheap laughs? He grabbed his sandwich and stuffed it in his mouth, wishing Mrs Winchester wouldn't insist on putting so little bacon into a B.L.T. He slung his bag onto his back and walked out of the common room.

It was mid-June, exams were over, and the sun was making its presence felt. Dean felt a light sheen of sweat form as he trekked up the path to the playing fields, the grass dry and wilting under his feet. Once he reached the top, sure enough, on the other side of the hill stood Priya, staring off into the distance.

Dean considered if it'd be worth sneaking up on the girl and surprising her, but a painful memory of the panicked, but surprisingly solid, elbow strike that had resulted from his last attempt to do something similar had him announcing his presence much earlier. "I was wondering where the Bookworm had got to," he forced his voice to be cheerful as he stumbled his way down the hill. "There was a distinct lack of knowledge in the common room."

Priya turned round and immediately wiped her red-rimmed eyes. "I was just coming back. I just needed some fresh air."

She ducked her head and started to walk past him when he reached out and grabbed her hand. "Hey, you want to talk about it?" he asked, softly.

Priya's eyes darted down to his hand and then swivelled up to meet his gaze. He loosened his grip.

"What's there to talk about?"

"I saw the yearbook. It was mean of them and it was stupid-"

"It doesn't matter, Dean. I give up," she interjected. "When I get home, I'm letting my mum have her way. She can pick whichever laser hair removal clinic she wants and I'll not argue this time. I hate the way people resort to this every time they want to hit a low blow." Her voice was filled with resignation. It scared Dean how even the strongest could break.

Priya took a seat on the grass and uprooted a weed. Dean sat down beside her. "You don't have to, you know. I mean, do it if you think it'll make you happy, but only if  _you_ really want to, not because of them."

"It won't make me happy. It'll just make me feel like someone I'm not. But hey, at least no one will feel like they're sharing a classroom with the bearded lady anymore," she said bitterly.

Dean edged closer and let his arm drop across her shoulders. "You're stronger than this. I know you are," he said. She leaned in and looked across the field, still twirling the dandelion between her fingers. He took in the smell of lavender and wondered if they'd still know each other when they were old, if they'd go to the park sometimes and just sit like this, lost in their own thoughts. There was a certain comfort in Priya's presence that he rarely felt anywhere else. She was his dreamcatcher, chasing his nightmares away.

"I-I don't know… Why can't people get over the fact-" A sob broke her voice and fresh tears started flowing down her face. "Shit, I'm crying again."

Dean wrapped his arm around her a little tighter and murmured a quiet 'shh' into her hair.

He felt her stiffen and pull away as she used the sleeve of her shirt to swipe away the tears. "You know what? Fuck them. Who am I even doing it for? Who gives two shits what they think? I mean, this is me. Take it or leave, I don't give a damn."

"Exactly. And besides, I thought your picture was pretty nice really," he mumbled awkwardly. He felt a slight blush rise.

"Of course it was," she grinned through the tears. "My face is a national treasure."

Dean rolled his eyes and felt a mix of relief and sadness wash over him. It was better she didn't pick up on the genuine nature of his comment. He didn't know when it had happened, but he'd slowly found himself falling for the nerdy little bookworm sat next to him. Hell, he'd not even realised it had happened until it was too late.

But that was stupid. Because Priya, who was so bright and brave and kind, would always be too good for a dumb ex-whore like him.

"Did I tell you about the cat that keeps following me home?" asked Priya, breaking the silence. "It joins me at the bottom of my street every day and walks up with me."

"Really? And here I was thinking I was the pussy magnet of the group."

Dean couldn't hold back the grin as Priya playfully swatted his arm and mumbled "arsehole."

"You love me really." He returned the hit with a light shove.

Priya's smile faltered as she looked out into the distance and replied with a quiet "I do."

Dean cocked his head and looked at the girl sat next to him, wondering if he might have heard her wrong. She was busy uprooting further dandelions, dirt lodging under her nails as she dug into the soil.

"I really do. I love you." She looked up suddenly, panic blooming in her wide eyes. "Oh god, I don't mean to sound like I expect anything back. I-I'm just saying, I feel happy when I'm near you. The way you care about your parents, about me, about Sam. That little smile you save for when you manage to do something you've been trying at for ages. Or when you make a reference you're really proud of. All sorts of little things… I dunno, I find they make me happy."

She went back to breaking off blades of grass and twirling them between her fingers. Dean reached out and took the leaf from her hand.

"I've made things awkward, haven't I? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. We can still be friends, right?" she asked, her voice a little desperate.

"You-you haven't," Dean finally found his voice. He dug his nail through the leaf and into the skin on the other side. "But there's something you need to know about me, Priya, and I'm scared you'll hate me when you hear this."

Priya waited silently, so Dean continued. "Do you remember how you first found out about sex?"

Priya quirked a brow at the question. "Uhh, I remember some kids using the word when I was little so I looked it up in a dictionary. I remember getting terrified and slamming it shut."

Despite how crap Dean felt, he couldn't help but chuckle at that. "That's so typical of you, Bookworm." The grin faltered as the memories and nightmares flitted through his mind again. "For me, it was when my dad's friend first used me to get his rocks off. Paid a fair bit for it too, I gotta say. And then there were others. Dozens of them. Some became regulars, some didn't. Father needed the money and I was an easy source of cash. 'Cause that's all I am, Priya, I'm a whore. And you deserve so much better."

"I know," she whispered.

_Good. At least she'll move on now. She'll find someone who doesn't come packaged with daddy issues and four years of filth._

But he couldn't help the way his stomach coiled with bitterness. This hurt even more than the last time he'd done this.

_She moved on pretty fast there._

Dean started to blink back tears when Priya continued. "I know you've had a past in prostitution. Well, I guessed as much."

"H-how?" he stammered, wondering how many other people knew.

Priya shrugged. "I just kind of pieced things together. Kate called you a whore at the party and then you said you got the marks on your back when you father needed you to do things that you didn't want to and you said no. There wouldn't be much you'd say no to even if it meant getting those scars. But I didn't want to take stabs in the dark so I just asked you why she called you that and, well, you sort of let it slip."

He really needed to staple his mouth shut someday.

_But if she knows…_

"Why do you put up with me? You're clever, surely you can see I'm bad news?" Dean didn't dare let himself hope. Disappointment was always far bitterer when preceded by hope. Real life wasn't like Pretty Woman or something. There were no hookers with hearts of gold. He'd been corrupted the first time a man had forced himself upon him and nothing could change that.

_And Bookworm? She's a pure soul, the sort that could probably burn demons with her touch. Don't taint her too._

"I dunno about good news or bad news, but all I know is that it isn't your fault. You were in a situation that no one should ever have to be in and you dealt with it. There's nothing to be ashamed of in that," she said softly, taking his hand into hers. "I'm actually kind of proud of how far you've come."

He felt the warmth of her skin against his, imagined the venom within him infecting her through the contact. He wanted to pull away, he really did. But Dean had always been weak, and he was again now. He closed his eyes and let the tears leak out. "I didn't want to do it. I-I promise," his voice could barely rise above a cracked whisper. "They made me an-and I just couldn't fight anymore. Th-the money made my father happy and I-I felt like I'd be a shit son i-if I couldn't even give him this much."

She gripped his hand and let him cry. "I'm not going to pretend to understand what that was like, Dean, because I can't. But all I will say is that you're brave, and you're resilient, and you're selfless. Your past doesn't lower my opinion of you in the slightest."

"I love you, Bookworm," mumbled Dean. "You're way too good for me and I have no clue why you stick by me," he paused as his breath hitched, "but I'm lucky to have you." Chastising himself for making a scene, he sat up and wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. "Uh, so what should we do now? Do we go on a date or something?"

Priya gave a dry chuckle. "I know this might sound crazy, but I don't really want to do anything. I mean, you're seventeen and I'm sixteen. We'll probably be at different universities soon, what then? I don't want you to feel tied down by me. And I don't want to get any more attached than I already am just to have it fall apart. Let's just hang out as friends and see where we are in five years' time or so. If we find we're still in love, let's give it a shot."

Dean shook his head and rolled his eyes. "How can you be so practical all the time?"

"I dunno," Priya shrugged, staring at the tips of her boots. "I guess I reckon people can't hurt me if I'm not as close to them. I mean, I got close to Beth and my mum, and look at me now." She tilted her head back and looked up at the sky with a wan smile.

"You were close to Beth? Huh, I never figured," said Dean.

"Yeah," Priya brought her gaze down to his level, brown eyes meeting green. "She was my best friend in primary school. Even in the first year of high school. Then I was an idiot and did something stupid," she paused, guilt overwhelming her face. Dean waited for her to continue. "I accidentally let it slip that her parents were going through a divorce. It was the stupidest thing ever to do-but it just kind of came out-and she really hated me for it. She'd not wanted to tell anyone. I guess we all like to pretend our home lives are perfect from time to time," she said with a shrug. "But after that, we didn't speak. And she knew my weak spot, so she was practically able to make me cry at will."

Dean nodded in understanding.

"God, I've never regretted anything so much," Priya leaned back and stared at her shoes again. "So yeah, I just can't let myself get close to the people I love."

Dean ignored the deep pit of disappointment in his gut and opted to stare across the field and try to name the trees. The left one was an oak, the one on the far right was definitely a silver birch, going from the peeling white trunk, the one slightly off middle was probably a sycamore or some shit like that. God knows what the rest of them were. His mind drifted and he thought of the way Mr and Mrs Winchester let him call them sir and ma'am, even though they didn't really like the terms, because they appreciated his fear of growing too attached only to have it torn away.

"I get it. We can wait if that's what you want," said Dean.

"Thanks Freckles," said Priya, slowly standing up and brushing shredded grass off her lap. "We'd best get going; the free period is nearly over."

Dean followed suit. "I thought periods were only over once you reached menopause," he quipped, unable to contain a smirk.

Priya crossed her arms and sighed. "I take it all back. You're an utter pain in the ass, Dean."

Dean shrugged. "You love me really."


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning:** There is child abuse in this chapter.
> 
> There are a couple of bits in this story (including this chapter) which contain medically inaccurate side-effects of sleeping pills. Please don't make any medical decisions based on what you read here, talk to a doctor or a pharmacist.

Sam watched the football fly over the fence, forming a neat trajectory into the neighbour's hyacinths.

"Rock paper scissors to see who goes to get it," he quickly called over to Dean, knowing he'd never get away with it and yet hoping nonetheless.

"Nuh uh," Dean shook his head. "Person who kicked it gets it back. You said so yourself."

Sam crossed his arms and grumbled internally about his lack of foresight. Dean might have been clumsy with his dribbling, but it was Sam who tended to get too adventurous with his goal shots and ended up sending the ball over the fence more often. Turning round to block out Dean's cocky little smirk, he stomped out of the garden through the little gate and headed over to Mrs Ford's cottage.

The door opened before Sam had even finished knocking.

_She's not on her meds right now then._

Mrs Ford was as sharp as a tack when she wasn't popping pills for her insomnia. Sam would never admit it, but she kind of scared him.

"Uh, hello Mrs Ford, I was wondering-"

"You've not thrown the ball over  _again,_ have you?" She peered at Sam over the bridge of her nose, making him squirm on the spot. He gave a quick nod. She huffed and gestured for him to open the back gate and enter the garden. "You better not hurt my plants!" she called after him, following it up with a cough.

Sam quickly picked up the football and threw it back into their garden, stopping for a second to try and right some of the tilted stems of the hyacinths. Having done as much as he could, he brushed his hands against his jeans and started to make his way out of the garden, hurrying past a glaring lady.

He was brought to a halt by the policeman stood in front of their house.

"I think I might need to speak to your parents, mister," he said, his voice friendly despite the cold, sunken, green eyes.

"I asked before I went into her garden!" Sam's voice came out as a panicked squeak. "I know my rights, I'm not giving consent to a search or anything like that!" His speech got faster as he thought of the dead djinn lying in the basement of Morton High.

"It's okay, I just need to talk to your parents or any other family members." He started pushing Sam gently towards the gate to the garden. Sam let himself be led, wondering how he could explain that he'd killed a djinn and not just a man with a thing for tattoos.

Dean's back was turned to them as they entered. "Hey, Sam! Watch this!" he yelled over his shoulder as he did an admittedly mildly impressive keepie-uppie with the football before kicking it up into the air, bouncing it off his head and catching the ball with a flourish. He turned round, his grin a mile wide, to face Sam and the policeman. The smile vanished and the ball slipped from his hands. Sam felt the policeman tighten the grip on his shoulder.

"Poughkeepsie." Dean said the word quietly, panic slowly flooding his features.

"Excuse me?" The policeman's voice got harder. Sam didn't understand why Dean was using their safe word when it wasn't needed, so he stayed put.

"I hear the weather in  _Poughkeepsie's_  great at this time of year," said Dean, coming closer to them, his eyes darting between the man's face and hand. His gaze then drifted to Sam's, begging him silently to take the cue and run. "You should go look Poughkeepsie up, Sam."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, I'm not going to run away, it's just a policeman," he said, stubbornly.

The policeman took his hand off Sam's shoulder and reached into his pocket, drawing a gun. "Nobody's running anywhere," he yelled, pointing the gun at Sam's temple.

Dean stopped moving closer, his eyes trained on the gun now. Mum popped her head round the door to ask what was going on but she, too, was silenced by the handgun.

"Ma'am, go back inside, please," Dean's voice was low, his eyes never left the firearm.

"But, officer, what's Sam done-"

"Just go inside, now."

"No one's leaving. You're all to come back to the car. Any resistance," the policeman's hand shifted and now Sam could feel the round metal entrance prodding him at the base of his spine, "and I blow a hole in your son's spine."

"There's no need for that. I'll come with you, just leave them here," Sam hated how resigned Dean sounded. Whereas Sam was reeling from a heady mix of adrenaline and terror, Dean's face was blank. Only his eyes hinted at what might have broken inside. "Please."

The policeman (who, by now, Sam was pretty sure couldn't be a policeman) shook his head and looked at Dean. "I need the leverage." He turned to face their mum. "Is there anyone else in the house?"

"Y-yes, my husband's-" she quickly stuttered before being cut off.

"There's no car in the driveway and you own a black Impala, so I'm guessing your husband's out. I'll try again, is there anyone else in the house? This time,  _don't lie to me._ " Sam felt the gun poke his back with each word.

Mum quickly shook her head and started walking towards the gate which led to the front lawn, towards the parked Peugeot that looked like it had seen far better days. Another prod to the small of Sam's back and Dean started hurrying after Mum.

"You're not a policeman, so who are you?" asked Sam, as he was led to the back seat and handcuffed. He bit back a whimper as the latch caught his skin.

The man ignored him. "Hands," he said to Mum, holding another pair of handcuffs in his right hand as he steadily held the gun to Sam's temple with his left.

She quickly complied, glaring at him as he tightened them too far. Sam could see Dean's eyes narrow at Mum's quiet hiss, quickly biting back a retort. Sam shifted his gaze and started scanning round the neighbourhood in hope of spotting someone to gesture to.

Typical. The one day he really needed some nosy neighbours, there was no one. Everyone was inside, watching the football match between England and France. The kidnapper had either gotten lucky, or he'd planned it to ensure a lack of witnesses.

_Well, Mrs Ford's still peeking through her window, but she won't be any good. There's no way you'll be able to get her attention without the man noticing._

Nonetheless, he was about to lift his hand to gesture anyway, when the fake policeman hit his forehead with the gun. "Don't even think about it."

Dean was led to the driver's seat and given the keys. "I know you've passed your test and I'm guessing you still remember the way?" said the man, his voice cold and rough. "I'm gonna have the gun pointed right at little Sam's skull the whole way, so don't even think about trying anything funny, you hear me?"

Dean nodded and started up the engine. Sam found himself missing the beautiful, guttural groan of the Impala.

_God, you're starting to sound like Mum and Dean now._

"You could have let them go, I'd still have come with you." His brother's voice sounded heavy. Sam didn't like the implications of what he'd just said. Did he know the faux-cop?

"Can't do that, Dean," the man shrugged and shook his head. "This way I  _know_ you'll do as I say."

Looking over his shoulder to check his blind spot, Dean's gaze met Sam's. Sam tried his best to shoot him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. It didn't work. Instead, Dean clenched his jaw as his eyes hardened. He threw the car into reverse and glared at their kidnapper. "You sick son of a bitch."

"Now, Dean, that's no way to speak of your grandmother."

Sam looked up in horror, taking in the man's sharp green eyes and dirty blond hair.

_So this is Dean's dad?_

He tried to catch Dean's eye through the rear-view mirror, but the older kid was staring down the road, blinking a little faster than normal. The journey seemed to take forever. Sam watched the eye of the gun stare him down, hoping the man's finger didn't slip on the trigger. His mum seemed to be doing the same thing.

An hour or so later, they pulled up in front of a dilapidated (it was a testament to how frightened Sam was that it didn't even feel good to use such a long word) terraced house, surrounded by abandoned council estates on all sides. Dean killed the engine and stepped out of the car, staring at the building with revulsion and dread. Sam didn't want to think about what he might be remembering. His brother sometimes still had nightmares and while he never talked about them, Sam knew he must have been through some truly awful shi-stuff to make him scream like that.

The man swung the passenger door open and turned to look at the kid sat in the driver's seat.

"Welcome home, Dean."

* * *

 

If this was a nightmare, his imagination was one twisted little bastard that deserved to be locked up with ten years hard labour.

_Focus, Dean. Nightmares, they don't feel this real. They blur and jump bits and you can't remember quite how you got to where you are. You can remember everything here. This is real and he has your family._

Dean started to return Rex Hall's stare with a glare of his own, but stopped and dropped his gaze when the man's gun prodded into Sam's temple once again.

"I-I won't run," he said, hating how broken he sounded. "Just let them go."

Rex ignored Dean and started to roughly pull Sam out of the back seat. The kid's eyes widened with fear, then narrowed as the strong grip made itself felt. Sam tumbled out of the car and started walking towards the front door of Dean's childhood home, Mrs Winchester following soon after. Dean slowly edged out of the car, watching them make their way in. They didn't deserve to be there. They'd done nothing wrong. Well, apart from being stupid enough to take in a young Heathcliff in an act of kindness and getting screwed over as a result.

"Get inside, boy."

No matter how old he got, or how many karate moves he learnt, or how big the pit of hatred within him grew, he'd never stand a chance against a voice like that. Cold and sharp like tempered steel; it was a voice that commanded power. Dean wished he had it in him to stand up to the giant that owned that voice, but he was no one. He was weak and he always had been.

Finding his feet, he exited the car and shut the door behind him. Slowly, he walked into the house, letting the pungent odour of alcohol and vomit wash over him. The carpets seemed to have made the transition from orange to a sort of reddish-brown that Dean didn't really care to know the name of. His eyes swung up when ma'am swore as Rex accidentally swung her head into the door while trying to push her into the basement.

"Don't hurt her." The words slipped out before Dean had a chance to think about them, carrying with them the hint of a threat he was in no position to make.

Rex grinned, his eyes hungrily lapping up the challenge. "What?" He grabbed her hair and swung her head against the wall again. She ricocheted with a dull crack, her lips pursed to stop any sound from leaking out. "Should I not do that again?"

Dean felt his insides churn as he noted the way she was blinking away the moisture from those pain-riddled eyes. "Please…" his voice cracked as he spoke. "Please don't hurt my mum."

* * *

 

Jane stopped fighting as Dean's words percolated through layers of adrenaline and reached her brain.

' _Please don't hurt my mum.'_

She had one last glance at her fear-stricken son before Dean's father roughly shoved her into the basement and locked the door. She rested her head against the painted wood, listening to the man's heavy footsteps receding.

The bitter irony of their situation hit her like a sucker punch to the stomach. She'd spent so long waiting for the day Dean let that word fall from his lips, wanting so desperately to hear him accept her as his own. Of course, Jane knew it might never happen. But that was never enough to stop her from dreaming of the moment. She would have hugged him, kissed him, ruffled his hair and generally utterly embarrassed him until he mumbled a disgruntled 'get offa me' against her shoulder.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

Through the door, there came the sickening sounds of fists on skin. Jane frantically rattled the handle. "Dean!" she screamed.

The echoes continued, the dull thuds having been replaced by a sharper, wetter sound. Jane closed her eyes, images of weeping welts against pale skin flitted through her mind, vivid as the first time she saw them.

_You were so weak. You never sat down and talked to him. Hell, you didn't even bother finding out if his father had been jailed or not. You don't deserve to be called mum._

But apparently Dean didn't think so. The blows stopped as Dean's pain-riddled voice rang out.

"I'm not gonna take it back. I never had a real mother! I had to make up what she was like in my head because  _you_ never told me anything about her!" Another crack of the whip and Dean's panting wheeze. "Hell, I just had one picture of her and you ripped that up too." The hits seemed to pause and the kid let out a quiet groan. "Mrs Winchester wanted me to call her mum right from the beginning. I was the one that refused, thinking that everyone would hate me and leave me like you'd always told me. But she didn't. She had every fucking reason to but-"

"Your mother would be so ashamed of you if she could hear you now," the deeper voice interjected. "And you're the only reason she can't."

The blows started up again after that, heavier than before. While Sam ran to the door, pounding his fists against the wood, screaming Dean's name over and over again, Jane found the fight had left her. She watched as Sam's strikes got weaker and his voice slowly broke. Her back slid down the door until she was sat hunched up at the base.

Every hit felt like it were landing directly on her skin. Every muffled yelp was a shard of glass, piercing through her as if her flesh were air. Of course Dean couldn't just swallow his pride and say sorry for calling Jane his mum. Her son was pig-headed, stubborn, and loyal to a fault. She wished he'd just drop it and stop himself from getting hurt any further.

Nevertheless, listening to her son's refusals to apologise made a little part of her glow with pride. Rex was wrong. She was his mother and she could never be ashamed of him.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is a really dark chapter, probably one of the darkest in the whole story. It includes child sexual abuse and a scene where a character is willing to die (it's not quite suicide ideation, but please do proceed with caution).**

In a world defined by change, it was strange how some things always stayed the same.

Dean was still terrified of Rex Hall. The shoe closet still contained the little box beneath which he used to hide the time-worn picture. Whip lashes still stung the worst when he was trying to get to sleep.

Dean bit back a groan as he tried to roll over without stretching the skin on his back in order to free his dead arm. He knew Sam and his mum could hear him through the basement door, they'd been banging on it earlier when Rex had been busy beating the living crap out of him. The frantic calls of his name had torn Dean apart. He didn't want his family to sound so desperate, trapped in the same house as a drunken pimp.

The yelling and banging had promptly stopped once Rex had threatened to lodge a bullet in Dean's brain if they didn't quit it with the racket.

Dean shifted over a little further and bit his lip as he felt a laceration open up and warm blood pool in the cut. Fuck Rex and his fucking accuracy with a whip. Of all the people he could have been born to, it had to be the crazy, alcoholic jockey. It couldn't have just been a mechanic or something, could it?

Dean swore as bile rose up within him as the smell of sweat mingling with blood hit him once again. No one had ever bothered cleaning the closet, seen as he was the only one that ever went in there. The copper stains and faint smell of urine seemed to have made themselves at home there.

_He shakes his head, trying to stop his hair from dripping cold water down his back. He wonders if he shakes hard enough, rattles his brain around his skull for long enough, he might be able to wipe the sickening image of the man's scarred face and leering grin from his mind._

_The shower was a relief, but his butt still hurts like a bitch. He can feel blood leaking out, the wet, ferrous scent hanging heavy in the air. There's gonna be a stain where he's sat and sir's guaranteed to make some stupid period joke about it. He'll probably call him a girl and offer to buy him tampons. Dean's got half a mind to accept. If this is what periods are like for girls, he's never making another 'that time of the month' joke again._

_Some of his clients like to call him a girl. Maybe it makes them feel like more of a man to pretend it's a consenting woman underneath them, rather than a fucked up kid with a psycho pimp daddy. He goes along with it, knowing it'll mean less pain and a bigger tip. He enjoys the luxuries of fresh food and central heating too much to let his pride get in the way. Besides, these clients tend to be gentler, they go slower and make sure he's prepped. He doesn't mind them so much._

_No , the clients he hates are the ones that thirst for his screams, like the man today._

_Who the hell would take a kid completely dry for Christ's sake?_

_He groans quietly as another sharp stab of pain shoots up him and a little more blood leaks out. If he ever falls in love (hah! That's a funny thought), he's never going to treat her like he's been treated. She's not going to be 'pretty' or 'delicious' or 'fuckable' like people think he is, she's going to be beautiful. And they're going to laugh at each other's jokes and get married someday and have a whole bunch of kids and grow old together. In his mind, he imagines she'll probably like cats, while he likes dogs, and they're going to argue about it until they reach an impasse and decide to get one of each._

_Dean slowly uncurls himself and laughs bitterly at his own naivety. Like Hell he'll ever fall in love. He's thirteen. The chances of him living long enough to get married are slim to none. Love's for the kids at school, who have a future and caring parents and no worries about the rising price of condoms._

_Like Georgina. She's funny and she's charming and she has a laugh that he'd probably describe as infectious, though not the bad kind like HIV or the flu or anything. She used to talk to him sometimes. Ask him how his day's been and if he could do some of her homework for her. He knows it's wrong to do someone's homework for them, but his father says it's also wrong of him to say 'no'. So he does it, enjoying her company and the way she smells of soap along the way._

_But one day she sees him wincing as he takes a seat. She asks him what's wrong while reaching into her bag to pull out the science write up she has to hand in the next day._

" _Nothing," he whispers, looking down at the work to try and hide the flush of shame colouring his cheeks._

" _You can trust me," she says, her voice is soft and sincere._

" _This guy paid me to have sex with him." Dean has no idea where those words came from. He'd not planned on saying them, knowing that what he'd done wasn't fit to repeat in civil society. He knows he's filthy and depraved and disgusting. He's kept it all in for so long, letting the hate and guilt fester away inside him until it's formed a putrefied mess. But then there's this girl who looks at him with kind eyes and asks after him as if she really cares and that's really all it takes for years of silence to crumble._

_However, one look at her face and he knows he's fucked. Her light blue eyes have moved from casual inquisitiveness to disgust. She looks at him like vermin now._

" _Ew. You're sick." She stuffs her sheets back into her bag and stands up quickly. "Why would you let someone do that to you? Pervert." She walks away without a backward glance and within a couple of hours half his class knows he's slept with men for money._

_No. No one could love him. Not with the vile, stomach-turning things he'd done._

_And yet, that wasn't quite true._

_There was Mr and Mrs Winchester, his new mum and dad._

_There was his best friend, Priya._

_There was that stupid little shit of a younger brother, Sammy._

_They'd seen something in him he seemed to have missed every time he looked in a mirror. They'd taken him in and looked after him and put him back together, piece by piece._

_And now he's broken again, who's gonna bother putting in the effort the second time around?_

Dean looked round, his eyes squinting in the dark, and wondered if they'd ever forgive him for the shit he'd landed them in once they got out.

Because they  _would_  get out. At least, Sam and Mum would. Dean would give his life and more to make sure that happened. He'd remain if necessary, but they had to get out and carry on with their lives. Mum needed to complete her Foreigner CD collection, Sam had dreams to be a lawyer someday. Dean couldn't let those dreams die away in some cramped basement at the hands of a manipulative monster.

_You have dreams too. You want to study engineering and help design cars and marry Priya and get your kids into AC/DC and eat so much pie you can barely move._

_Yeah, but your dreams just don't matter as much, do they?_

That was another thing that hadn't changed. He still wanted things he'd never get. He wanted Dad to find them and rescue them. He wanted the Winchesters to take him back in despite what he put them through. He wanted Rex Hall to rot in Hell.

The distinct stench of urea registered in his mind once again and he started wondering when he'd be allowed to use the toilet. The pressure in his bladder was slowly building up and his cramped position was definitely not helping. There had been one time he'd gotten so desperate he'd just gone in the corner of the closet. But it had been a stupid idea, the smell made getting to sleep almost impossible.

_Oh fuck it. He can't hurt you much more than he already has._

He steeled himself for another session as he slowly reached round to hammer on the closet door. Before his hand could make contact with the wood, the bolt slid across and the door swung open.

"Get out," snarled Rex.

"Christ! I thought I was gonna have to do a Magnussen there," he grumbled as he eased himself out. He didn't know which part of pissing off his captor was a sensible idea but he found he didn't give a shit.

The man said nothing, his cold, green eyes following Dean as he made his way into the bathroom and shut the door.

_Lock's been removed. No surprise there. He's been planning this for quite a while then._

Dean quickly relieved himself and washed his hands, taking the opportunity to check his back in the cracked mirror hanging above the basin. The licks had stopped bleeding, the crimson rivers having been replaced by a clear sticky fluid that was currently stitching his skin back together.

_Platelets. Broken fragments of blood cells that help heal cuts._

A wave of nostalgia washed over him as he remembered Priya's toothy grin and eager voice that came out every time she had some other random fact she felt was necessary to share with him. He wanted to talk to her, to ask her for a way to get out of this.

But that was a pointless train of thought. He was probably never going to see her again and it was his own damn fault for getting so close to anyone anyway. No one stays forever. He knew that by now. He palmed his left pocket again, feeling the outline of the contents against the top of his thigh, and wondered if hope was anything more than a meaningless string of four letters.

"You've been in the bathroom long enough now, boy," the order snapped Dean back to the present and he put his bloodied shirt back on again and exited the toilet. Rex was stood in the hallway, next to the door to the master bedroom. "Get in here."

His voice left no room for argument and Dean found his feet rushing to comply. It was strange how easily one could fall back into old habits. As he was about to pass through the door, expecting another round of 'Hit Me Baby One More Time', Rex grabbed his wrist and whispered, "Give him what he wants or I'll hurt that bitch downstairs you call  _mum_." He spat out the word and pushed Dean into the room, shutting the door behind him.

Dean froze. In front of him was the stuff of nightmares. Looming at over six foot tall, Terry Beecher stood examining him as one would a piece of meat. There was hunger in those eyes that Dean knew he couldn't quench. He could give the man his life and soul and it would do nothing to slake this monster's thirst.

"Christo," Dean found himself whispering. "Christo, Christo, Christo."

This couldn't be real. It couldn't be. Here he was, thinking this was just going to be another session with his good old friend, Mr Whippy, only to find himself trapped in the same room as the man who'd taken the last ounce of innocence and self-respect he'd ever had.

"It sure is good to see you again, Deano," Terry came a little closer. Dean fought the urge to shudder.

"I was wondering where Rex got the police uniform and gun from. I should have known," Dean tried his best to stop his voice from breaking with terror, his hand found its way down to his trouser pocket once again.

The man grinned, revealing perfectly aligned, cigarette-stained teeth. "And you, my boy, are my payment." Terry reached out and traced a finger over Dean's face, letting his touch linger over his mouth. "I've missed those lips. I dream about them sometimes," he mused. Dean felt a wave of nausea wash over him.

_Remember who you're doing this for._

The hand snaked round the back of Dean's head and pulled roughly on his hair, tilting his head up to meet those hardened hazel eyes. The bare bulb blinded the boy as the sharp pain of uprooted hairs started to take hold.

"You're going to scream for me, whore?"

_You're doing this to keep Mrs Winchester safe._

Another hand started to unbutton his shirt, his eyes breaking contact in order the do a faster job. Dean swallowed down revulsion and stemmed the desire to strangle the man blue.

_You're doing this to keep your mum safe._

Terry leaned in and whispered into Dean's ear. "I knew you'd always come back to this," he paused to nibble on his lobe. "You're nothing more than a filthy slut and you're gonna take everything I give you and beg me for more."

Without thinking, Dean's knee jerked up and made solid contact with the man's groin.

"You little bitch!" Terry yelled, groaning as he hunched over in agony. He lunged towards Dean, but Dean was already skirting back, regretting his actions.

_Now he's gonna hurt mum and it'll all be because you can't take one for the team._

But he couldn't. He was selfish and he was spoilt and he couldn't do this one little thing to keep his family safe. It was just spreading his legs after all. He'd done it countless times before.

_But it just feels worse now. I know there's something better out there now._

Dean walked over to the door and opened it, ignoring the grown man curled on the floor, whimpering in pain. He ran down the stairs and strode into the kitchen.

"I can't do it," he said, watching as the thunder built up in his pimp's eyes. "I tried but I can't. Kill me, I don't care… but I can't go back in there."

And there it was. The one way this could end happily. Rex would lodge a bullet in his son's brain and let Mum and Sam go, having no use for them now. Desperation filled Dean as he looked up into the face of death. This was it.

_You'll never get to compare cars with Billy again._

_You'll never get to hear Priya's laugh again._

_You'll never know if Sammy ever got round to asking Jess out._

He wanted to live. Oh God, he wanted so badly to carry on breathing, to see where life took him.

_Quit being a self-centred son of a bitch._

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, waiting for the short burst of agony that would quickly give way to endless oblivion.

Nothing happened.

He slowly cracked one eye open. Rex stood in front of him, the smirk on his face screaming trouble. "You really think I'll shoot you?"

Dean felt rage boil up within him. He'd be so ready to die, but that was gone now. The will to live was bubbling to the surface again and Dean found he couldn't put a lid on it. "You always went on about how everything would be better if I'd not been alive, so let's do this," he said, the conviction having left his voice.

The smirk grew wider. "And what do you think will happen once I do?"

"What?" Dean quashed the urge the scrunch his brow in confusion. What did he want, a description of rigor mortis?

"Well, my debts aren't going to go away," Rex spoke casually, though his eyes never left the kid in front of him. Dean felt like an open book being examined minutely for its secrets. "And Terry will still want paying for the gun and costume."

Dean couldn't tell where this was going but it couldn't be anywhere good. Why would he care what Rex did to pay off his gambling debts?

"So, if you're gone, who do you think I'll use to  _satisfy_ Terry?" Rex's gaze locked onto Dean's, watching with glee as realisation dawned and terror pooled within them. "And remember how much he likes his virgin boys?"

_Sammy, with his infinite concern over the colours of thread used in his mathlete costume._

_Sammy, with his stupid dimples and loving smile._

_Sammy, with all his eyerolls and huffs and groans and sighs._

_Sammy, with his fondness for the Bill of Rights and Taylor Swift and peanut butter and banana sandwiches and Jessica Moore._

_Sammy, his little brother._

He turned and looked down the stairs at the greying door behind which the person he loved most lay, his stomach turning at the thought of his innocence being taken away as brutally as Dean's had been. He wanted to punch Rex Hall until his knuckles were stained with blood and missing skin. But the man held all the cards. And it didn't do to anger people when lives far more important than his own were at stake.

"I'll do it." His voice was hoarse as tears blurred his sight. Dean wondered how he could possibly share half his genes with the man stood in front of him. "There won't be any kiddy-fiddlers going near Sammy."

"Are you sure?" Rex asked with mock concern, watching as Dean slowly broke under his gaze. "Because you'd been very eager to off yourself a second ago, you sure you want to go back in there?"

_Sam walks over to his corner of the garden, smiles widely, and sticks out his hand. "Hi, I'm Sam."_

Dean gave the door one last glance and nodded. He'd let himself be screwed over and over until he lost the ability to sit on a chair if it meant Sam never had to be tainted with the same filth he'd made a living out of. "Please, I'll give Terry, and anyone else, whatever they want. I'll be good."

Seemingly satisfied by the note of desperation in Dean's voice, he stepped out of the way and gestured towards the bedroom once again. Dean took a step towards it, but stopped as the banging on the basement door started up again, along with muffled shouts of his name.

_Mum, Dad, please forgive me if you can. You tried so hard to make me human. You tried and tried and tried, and yet here I am, back to being no more than a sick pervert's wet dream. But I want you to know I don't want to be here. I don't want to fail you like this. But I'm doing this for Sam._

Dean clenched his jaw and continued to walk towards the bedroom while Rex headed downstairs to silence his family once again. He loosened his fists when he felt his nails digging small crescent-shaped crevices into his palms. No point adding unnecessarily to the world of pain that was waiting ahead of him.

Terry was sat on the bed, nursing a tender groin. He looked up as Dean entered and shut the door behind him. "I'll make you pay for that hit, bitch" he growled, his narrow eyes latching onto Dean's. The thirst was still there, but it had been joined by a dark desire for revenge. He unzipped his trousers and reached for the condom on the windowsill. "Bed. Now."

It was strange how some things always stayed the same. The last time he'd spread his legs for Terry Beecher, over three years ago, he'd been doing it to make enough money to keep his father fed and out of debt. This time, once again, he was selling himself for family.

Dean silently nodded and prostrated himself on the unwashed linen sheets. The springs squeaked as Terry came up behind him.

_Sam, if you can hear this, please don't hate me._


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The side effects of sleeping pills described in this chapter are exaggerated and not medically accurate. Also, restricting access to medication can be harmful and potentially dangerous. Please don't do this.

It had been exactly fifty two hours since Michael had come home to find the house empty and his family gone. The clock struck nine in the hallway, the sun merely beginning to make its dozy descent on the horizon on the long midsummer night.

Things shouldn't have been so peaceful while Michael was being torn apart inside. The chances of finding a kidnapping victim dropped to around a half after twenty four hours, a tenth after seventy two.

He picked up the whiskey tumbler and flung it at the wall, watching as the glass shattered into a thousand glittering fragments and the amber liquid stained the wallpaper, hating the way there were no repercussions from his wife. He stared at the broken shards for a couple of minutes, the wave of anger slowly passing, and then went over to get a dustpan and brush.

Sweeping up the debris, he regretted once again choosing to go into work two days ago. He should have stayed at home, played in the garden with the kids, helped Jane with the mechanical resonance model she'd been trying to build. After all, who did he work for anyway? What did it matter if there was money in the bank if there was no family to share it with?

This was his fault. He should have been there and his family might have been safe.

_The door swings open but the house is unnaturally quiet. There's no sound of children playing in the garden, no mild cussing coming from the garage. Just as he's about to call out, the grandfather clock starts to chime as the hour hand strikes five._

" _Jane?" No answer. "Boys?" The silence starts to scare him a little. "You guys hiding or something?" He tries to laugh, but the sound catches in his throat. "You can come out now. You're a little too old for this, especially you, Jane." He genuinely laughs this time, remembering the time she'd tucked herself away in the attic during an intense game of hide and seek, coming out only when Sam got bored of looking for her and went off to eat ice cream. He remembers her dishevelled hair and grumpy swears, brushing dust off her clothes._

_There's still no reply._

" _Okay guys, this isn't funny anymore, come out now, I'm getting worried." His voice is clipped, certain the prank will end now. Jane knows his desperate fear of abandonment. His father left him and his younger brother to fend for themselves when he was eight and John four. He'd spent countless days waiting for the man to come back, spotting his features in the faces of random strangers, hope bubbling up within him every time, only to be crushed in seconds._

_Finally, he'd accepted his father had left him and he'd moved on. But the fear of losing the people he loved still haunted him. Jane knew this, she'd come out if she knew he was getting worried._

_There are no peals of laughter and shouts of 'got ya!' as the family extract themselves from their hiding places._

_They are truly gone._

_And that's when the panic sets in. He hurtles up the stairs and runs from room to room, throwing the doors open, desperately screaming their names. Nothing._

_Practically throwing himself downstairs, he barges into the kitchen and sees the wide open back door, a lonely football lying on the patio. That's another thing to be added to the ever-growing list of things that aren't right. Dean always tidies up after himself, from his plate to his room to his clothes. He never leaves the football lying around outside when it's not being used._

_He sends a call through to his wife's mobile, hoping against hope that she might have just popped to the shops with the boys rather than anything else. The phone rings out from the living room, lying abandoned on the couch._

_His next call is to the police. They're over in less than half an hour, checking for footprints, tyre tracks, any clues whatsoever. It's a warm day at the end of June and the ground is dry and cracked from a lack of rain. There's no hope of tell-tale tracks in the mud._

_The worst bit is there seems to be no witnesses whatsoever. Everyone was inside, watching the football final. It twists Michael's gut to think of how badly he'd wanted to catch the game too, how he'd considered cancelling the overtime hours in order to stay behind and cheer on his team. Irony is a bitter pill. His team won but he lost everything he's ever cared about._

Michael sat with his head in his hands, wishing he'd been a little less sleep deprived and could think clearly. Fifty two hours of frantic calling and checking and driving and searching had started to take their toll on him.

_There hadn't quite been no witnesses…_

The memory ran through his head once again.

_Mrs Ford doesn't hear the first five or so knocks. When she finally opens the door, her baggy eyelids are drooping over drug-addled eyes. "What're you doing 'ere? What dya wan'?" Her words are indistinct, her medicine having taken effect._

" _Ma'am, we're sorry to disturb you, but we're here to ask you if you saw anything happening in front of your neighbour's house between four and five yesterday." The policeman, a young, enthusiastic man in his early-thirties, phrases it carefully in order to avoid creating false memories. Michael would have taken a second to admire the neat little trick if he weren't so desperate to hear the lady's answer._

" _I want to sleep!" she grouches, shuffling back indoors and making a move for the door._

" _I understand, ma'am, and we're really sorry," the policeman says, "but if there's anything you can remember, it'd be a big help."_

" _Uhh…" The sound trails off and Michael wonders if she might have fallen asleep there and then, but she starts speaking again soon after. "There was a car, and a man… but there might not have been. Coulda been a horse..."The words trail off again as another wave of drowsiness settles over her._

_The policeman sighs. He drags his hand over his face and steps down off the porch._

" _I-I can't remember nothin' else. Your boy," she gestures with her head to Michael, "came over and killed some of my hyacinths, he did." For the first time in this whole conversation there's a little life in her as she glares at him for the dead plants._

" _Sorry," Michael coughs. "Do you remember anything else about the car?"_

" _What car?"_

" _The car you said you might have seen."_

" _When did I say that?" She peers at them from over her nose, as if she's wearing glasses. "I never said nothin' about a car." Mrs Ford yawns and turns to look at the policeman. "I want to go to sleep. I've had a long day."_

_The policeman nods to the lady and says, "Thank you for your time, ma'am. We won't keep you any longer." They start to walk away, the man explaining to Michael that she's an unreliable witness and it'd be easier to follow up other leads. Michael nods and goes to the next house, which turns out to be a dead end like all the other houses have been._

_It's only the next day that certain phrases start rising to the top of his mind over and over again._

' _There was a car and a man'_

_Fair enough, she might just have said that while thinking about him driving home and parking up._

' _Your boy came over and killed some of my hyacinths'_

_But that? That was too specific._

His head spun as he tried to recall if either of the boys had ever broken any hyacinths before. They'd kicked the ball over numerous times before and once they'd damaged one of her other bushes.

Which one had it been?

_C'mon, just think! You know you know this._

Petunias? No, it had been a more common flower than that. Daffodils? No, it had definitely been a bush. The football had gotten lodged in it.

He sighed and lifted his head, wondering if he'd be able to get to sleep tonight. Ahead of him, on top of the fireplace, sat the large Valentine's day heart he'd gifted to Jane in what Dean had described as 'the one chick flick moment to rule them all'.

_Rose. The ball had landed on a rose bush. Definitely not a hyacinth bush._

That meant that Sam must have kicked the ball again the day he was taken. And if she'd remembered it, she must have been off her pills at the time. Which meant she'd be able to recall everything as long as she was off her medicine again. The woman never forgot a thing. From who was having an affair with whom, to quite how often the quiet couple in the house opposite them took out their bins, she kept track of everything through her living room window.

Michael stood up with a rush and checked the time. Twenty minutes past nine, he was probably already too late. Nonetheless, not wishing to waste any more time, he threw on a coat and exited the house, trying not to consider the morality of what he was about to do.

Less than a minute later, he was knocking on Mrs Ford's door. It opened immediately, which had Michael sighing in relief.

"What do you want?" she asked, before looking down at her watch. "I need my medicine, I'll be back in a minute."

Panic flared up in Michael as he contemplated losing the one lead he'd had over the last two days. He threw himself into the house and ran past the old lady, nearly knocking her over in the process.

"What did you do that for?" she glared at him, steadying herself before walking once again towards the kitchen cabinet.

Michael didn't have time to explain. He yanked the cabinet doors open and took out the three bottles of sleeping pills stocked in there. "I can't let you take your medicine, Liz."

"What do you mean?" she croaked, her bright blue eyes trained on the bottles in his hands. "Give 'em here."

"Sorry, I need you to do something for me first," Michael tried his best to keep his voice soft. "What do you remember-" his voice caught in his throat. He coughed and resumed, "about the time when my kids and wife were taken?"

"I'll call the police! You don't scare me!" Mrs Ford's voice rose as the craving grew in her eyes.

Michael felt like shit about what he was doing. Not even a soft euphemism for shit, pure, uncensored shit. Elizabeth Ford was an elderly widow with an addiction to sleeping pills and here he was, a grown man, restricting access to her medication with the hopes that she could help locate his family, who had only gone missing because he gave his job more importance than he'd given them.

He was going to buy the old lady a heck of a lot of potted plants when this was all over. For now though, he really needed information. "I promise you, you'll get your medicine back once you've recalled what you can. I won't hurt you, Liz, you know I won't."

"There had been a car, a silver one, the man driving it looked a lot like your older son," the lady spoke absentmindedly, slowly edging closer to the pills. "Now give me my medicine. I'm meant to take it at nine."

Michael ignored her, reflexively grabbing hold of her shoulder to keep her from moving any closer to the bottles.

' _looked a lot like your older son.'_

He'd never asked. Over a year now and he'd never had the guts to sit the boy down and ask exactly where his father was now, to make sure the man was behind bars, to even ask what his name was. He'd pretended all that was in the past for Dean and he'd never brought the topic up, imagining that that was the same as giving his son space to come to terms with what had happened in his own way. As a result, Jane and Dean and Sam were currently being held hostage by a man who'd happily sell his son into prostitution.

Michael Winchester was a coward and it had cost him his family.

"Let go of me, you're hurting me," Mrs Ford's voice had turned shrill and Michael quickly let go with an apology.

"Sorry, sorry," he held his hands up in the air away from her, not missing the way her eyes stayed glued to the hand holding the brown pill bottles. "Do you remember anything else? Anything at all?"

"There was a registration number, RF-" she paused and looked up at him with shrewd eyes. "I'll tell you the rest if you give me my pills. My head's starting to hurt."

Michael sighed and shook his head. He thought he couldn't hate himself more, but then he looked into those tear-filled, desperate eyes and realised he could. His hands itched to just give the lady her drugs, but the thought of his wife and children at the hands of a sadistic pimp kept his arm steadily in the air. "I can't, Liz, I'm sorry. I'll give it when you tell me all of it, I swear."

Liz slumped down into the lonely chair at the dining table and started sobbing silently into her hands. "Fine, have it your way," she hiccupped, then continued. "It was RF16 7AH. Now will you give me them?"

Michael didn't speak. Instead, he went over to the sink, poured out a glass of water, and opened the half empty bottle. He took out a pill, placed it on a dish and put both the dish and water next to Mrs Ford's elbow.

"I'm sorry, Liz. I'm really so sorry. But this was for my family, and I've got to get them back."

* * *

 

Five minutes later, Michael was speaking to Officer Richards, relaying the information he now had.

"I can't deploy a team based on what some drugged up old woman said, Mr Winchester," the voice on the other end said patiently.

"I can understand, but could you at least please run a search for the registration number? See if it's a silver car?" He knew he was starting to sound desperate, be he found he didn't care. Things far bigger than his pride were at stake here.

A sigh floated down the line. "I did, and yes. It's registered to a silver Peugeot, but-"

"See!" Michael interjected, feeling a bubble of hope form within him. "Now do you believe me?"

"But we cannot arrest this man just because the colour of a car matches."

Michael was seconds away from flinging the phone at the wall. Couldn't they understand that this was about his wife and children? Couldn't they see that he'd be willing to follow the tiniest lead to the ends of the earth if it meant getting them back?

Sometimes, if you wanted to get something done, you had to do it yourself. "Can I have the address of the owner of the car?"

There was a pause on the other end. "What do you plan to do with that information?"

"Nothing outside the law, I promise."

_Not if it's the wrong house, anyway._

"Well, it's in Gildering," The man reeled off the address and Michael quickly jotted it down. "Please be careful and I'd request, if anything were to happen, my name to not be brought into any of this."

Michael smiled cynically. Here was another person too attached to their job, too scared to see years of hard work slip away into nothing. "Of course not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be going away next Saturday for three weeks so I'll put up two new chapters on Friday. Once I'm back, I'll publish that last few chapters and the companion piece I've been working on.
> 
> Please feel free to leave me your thoughts!


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be away for three weeks from this weekend onwards so I'm releasing two chapters today to make up for it. I apologise if I don't get round to replying to messages or comments before I go, but I promise to reply once I'm back.
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Rex Hall sat with his head in his hands at the grimy dining table, an overwhelming sense of despair washing over him as another slap reverberated around the house.

_He first thinks the kid's weak spot has got to be the bitch. After all, he has the audacity to call her 'mum' and his eyes darken at the sight of her being hurt. And maybe she is a weak spot, but she can't be his Achilles' heel, seen as he comes back out without doing the job._

_It's funny how three years away from the sheets is enough to make the kid grow a sense of pride. He can see it in his gait, in his gaze. He now has a thin veneer of confidence and he speaks with force. He's even willing to die if it means not losing the pathetic amount of self-worth he seems to have gained._

_Just as Rex starts to worry the kid really never will go back in there, he tries a different tack, a different pressure point._

_And this one works. It works like a charm._

_One mention of his brother being dragged down to his level and the boy's a begging, pleading mess. Rex feels glee surge up within him as he drives the stake further into the kid's Achilles' heel. A little part of his mind hates himself for it, but he just reminds himself that the thing in front of him took the one person he ever truly loved and he doesn't feel so bad anymore._

But now, listening to the hits land to nothing more than sharp breaths, he felt a deep, aching sense of shame. Dean was his mother all over. The same unwavering kindness, the same stubborn determination, the same willingness to give everything for those he loved.

_But why should he love these people when I'm his father?_

Rage rose up within him, hot and bitter. Why was he sat here pitying someone who felt nothing but hatred for him?

He was getting soft in his old age. Either that or this was a mid-life crisis of sorts.

The grunting and obscenities reached a crescendo and was followed by the sound of two bodies hitting the mattress. A few minutes later, the door clicked open.

Rex left the small dining room and headed up the stairs. At the top was Terry, an oxytocin-induced grin sloping across his face. "Another session and I'd say your debt's been paid."

Rex forced himself to smile back. "I hope he was alright in the end?"

"Oh yeah, I dunno what you said, but it really did the trick." Terry started down the stairs, grabbing his jacket from the banister on the way down. "I'll be back in a couple of days. Tell me if you need anything."

Rex nodded, watching until the tall shoulders disappeared out of the front door and the lock clicked shut once again. He then went into the room. The kid was tentatively sitting upright, a permanent grimace plastered to his face. One hand was cradled in the other.

Dean answered Rex's silent gaze. "He really started pissing me off towards the end so I gave him the finger." He lifted his right hand up, the middle digit hanging uselessly out of its socket.

"You can get that back in?" Rex asked, his voice gruff with concern he was trying to ignore. "Sorry about that."

"Save it." Dean bit out. He grabbed the finger and jerked it back in place with a pained whimper. "Don't say it if you don't mean it."

Anger flared up within Rex at the boy's cheek. "Don't talk back to me, whore."

There was just a stony glare from Dean, before his stomach rumbled loudly and broke the silence.

"There's food downstairs, go make three meals. And you'd better not give that bitch -" he noted the spark that shot through those bright green eyes at the term, "and her kid more food than they need."

The kid grunted and hauled himself off the bed. Rex started stripping the sheets off, trying to avoid the crimson stains left by Dean's weeping torso. The room had a lingering smell of sex and blood that made Rex's stomach curl.

Once he'd laid out new sheets and put the old ones in the bathtub later for Dean, he headed downstairs and stood by the kitchen door, watching as the boy rummaged in the fridge and pulled out a few reduced price ready meals that Rex had bought a week ago. Dean flipped them over and grimaced at their sell-by dates. Cautiously, he opened each in turn and sniffed them. The last, some kind of shepherd's pie, had the kid taking a step back and blanching before popping it in the microwave.

The whore seemed to have gotten picky over the years. So what if the food was a little off?

_I always did make sure my kid had enough green in his diet._

Wincing at the grimness of the joke, Rex stepped into the kitchen as the microwave pinged for the last time and the third ready meal came out. Something akin to guilt flooded through him as he watched Dean set the curry and what looked like a bad attempt at a risotto on the two plates, leaving the shepherd's pie aside for himself.

"Why do you care?" Rex found himself asking, desperate to know how these people came to mean so much more to his son than his father ever had. "They're not blood."

Dean shrugged. "They're family."

He walked over to the basement door and waited patiently for Rex to open it, his jaw set and his eyes drenched in shame. Rex came over, unlocked the door, and put the gun to Dean's temple, trying to ignore the boy's flinch.

He opened the door and the bedraggled kid inside started to run towards him, rage etched in every fibre of his being, but he stopped short when he caught sight of the semi-automatic pointed at Dean's head.

"Wouldn't want my finger to accidentally slip, would we?" Rex said casually, delighting in the way all that anger so quickly gave way into fear. It seemed he'd found little Sammy's Achilles' heel too.

Dean saw his brother's distress and started to speak in a low, reassuring voice. "It's okay, Sammy. He's not hurt me." Dean advanced towards him, the slight trembling in his arms making the plates shake and giving away his terror. "I'm fine. Are you and mum okay?" Rex hit Dean's temple with the gun at the word but there was nothing but a quick blink from Dean in response. He was too busy straining his eyes to see Sam in the dark.

"Yeah, we're okay. Mum won't talk though; she's been sat silently in the corner all day." Sam looked over his shoulder and Dean followed his gaze with concern. He turned back and shot Rex a look that could only be described as murderous. "You're a monster."

Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. He silently handed the plates over to Sam and exited. Rex followed him out, locked the door behind him, and pocketed the key. He turned to see Dean leaning his forehead against the wall, his hand in his pocket, tears crusading down his cheeks.

* * *

The walls of the house were paper thin.

Sam didn't know what scared him more, the sounds from upstairs or the silence from his mum. Despite the rat that was sharing their living space with them, his mum had spent the vast majority of the last forty eight hours sat in the corner of the basement with her head resting on her bent knees.

She rarely spoke and ate only when Sam made her.

Most of the time, she just listened.

Sam listened too. The sounds of squeaking bedsprings, the grunts and whimpers, the crack of whips meeting pale skin.

_The crack echoes for the fourteenth time. Sam's been counting. They're all followed by sharp breaths, but this one seems to have landed on a sore spot, for Dean yells 'fuckbugger'._

_At that, Sam's mum lets out a hitched sob and buries her face in her knees once again._

He thought back to the scars running down Dean's back. That day at the beach, Sam had been desperate to know how Dean had got them. Now, he wished he'd never found out.

And to top it all off, it was all so Sam wouldn't be hurt.

The now familiar feeling of rage started to build up within Sam once more as he recalled Dean pleading to be the one that was hurt instead of him, the way he'd later said he was fine, all while those damn plates shook in his hands.

Sam hadn't wanted to eat after that. He'd sat and stared at the plates for a good hour before boredom got the better of him and he started eating forkfuls of mushy risotto.

Halfway through the shoddy excuse for a meal, he realised his mum still hadn't touched her food. He'd scooted over with her plate and gotten her to lift her head and swallow a few mouthfuls when the bedsprings had started squeaking again. She'd pushed him away after that and refused to eat another bite until the sounds stopped again.

It was hard to keep track of time in the dimly lit basement. Days and nights merged into one and Sam slept whenever he felt tired. It had been about two days since he'd showered and the toilet bucket was badly in need of emptying, the stench having hung around for so long Sam no longer noticed it. He just knew it was there from the way Dean's nose wrinkled when he came in to give them food.

Sam still had to fight the urge to hurt Rex repeatedly over and over again for what he was doing. It was even stronger after what he'd just overhead.

_The front door shuts and the shower turns on._

_It's strange, despite all that's happened, Sam swears he can still here a few, quiet, off-tune notes from Highway to Hell floating down._

_That's Dean all over. Even hours of rape couldn't keep him away from classic rock. He remembers how fond Dean is of the Walkman he got a few months ago, how he'll always listen to it after a nightmare._

_The front door opens again and the shower stops._

" _He's upstairs, it'll be thirty for a suck, fifty for a fuck. Anything more is negotiable." There's the sound of rustling wallets and clinking keys. "There's a condom on the windowsill."_

_Sam hears heavy footsteps make their way up the stairs and he wonders if Dean feels the same mix of revulsion and apprehension that he does when the rapists ascend._

_The bedroom door opens and the nightmare begins. "Getting yourself clean for me, boy?"_

"' _Course." Dean's voice is tired, like he can't be bothered with the small talk anymore._

" _Why don't you come over here and show me how clean the inside of your mouth is?" the man says, his voice heavy and dripping with some dark emotion Sam can't quite put his finger on._

_Then, as always, there comes the thud of knees hitting the thin carpet followed by the sound of a zipper being lowered before that disgusting, wet sound that makes Sam shudder._

" _So eager, aren't we?" The same condescending tone laced with dark desire. "Beg me and I might let you, you little minx."_

" _Please, oh please, let me put the first part of my alimentary canal around your reproductive organs," Sam swears he can_ hear  _Dean's cocky smirk. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at his brother's bravery._

_The man with the weird voice doesn't find it funny. For what feels like the millionth time that day, Sam hears the distinct echo of skin hitting skin. "Beg me properly, whore, or I'll get your daddy up here."_

_There's a quiet murmur that Sam misses, and it seems the rapist did too. "What did you say?"_

" _I said 'He's not my dad.'" Dean's voice is a heady concoction of defiance and barely controlled anger. "My da-" the words are cut off, and from the sounds of the gagging and grunting that follow Sam can guess what with._

_The gagging stops soon after and the man speaks again, the sugar-coated voiced is tinged with a definite hint of anger this time. "Beg for it nicely this time, princess, and I'll go gently and not give you an ouchie."_

_Sam swears he can feel Dean's stony glare from down here. If Sam's correct, that man is seconds away from losing the ability to reproduce. Part of him wants his badass big brother to tear the man a new one and beat him to a bloody pulp, but most of him just wants the stupid jerk to play it safe and not get hurt. Sam can't listen to Dean's hitched breaths and bitten back screams again._

_But it seems his brother's too stubborn for his own good, because soon after, there comes a call down the stairs. "Rex! Your whore's playing up! This isn't what I paid for."_

_Once again, footsteps make their way upstairs and the familiar feeling of dread grows within Sam. The rapist explains the situation to Rex and Rex replies with, "I'll have a word with him. He'll behave, I promise."_

_The man grunts and goes back in. Sam hears his brother being dragged downstairs and dumped directly outside their door. Sam wants to run to the door and pound on it and tell Dean how proud he is of him for fighting back, how sorry he is that he's being used as leverage against him. But Rex's threat to blow a hole into Dean's skull if he even hears a peep out of Sam or his mum hangs heavy in the air._

" _Hand." Rex barks._

_There's a small shuffle, followed by a low pop and a cry of pain._

" _What the fuck did you do that for?" asks Dean, the words sound like they're coming through gritted teeth._

" _Will you go back upstairs and do what Reece tells you to?"_

_There's no answer from Dean and that horrifying pop filters through the door once again. Sam finds his palms are now buried in his eyes, anything to block out the images of Dean's pain-crumpled face and dislocated fingers._

" _I'll pull out your arm next if you don't answer me, Dean Hall."_

" _My name's not Dean Hall." Dean says, still sounding in pain, but there's a gravitas in his voice that makes Sam look up and listen. "My name is Dean Winchester."_

_And that's when Sam gets it. He's been asking himself over and over why Dean would go through so much for him, why he'd let himself be debased in so many ways just to keep him safe. After all, it's not like he's anything special. Hell, he's a weirdo who likes maths and law and eating fruit and veg. What was worth saving in him?_

_But now he understands. It's the same way Sam could think of nothing but saving his brother when Dean had been captured by the djinn._

_Sam feels something in his chest tighten at the thought of having a friend who'd give so much for him. He wants to tell Dean that he's so lucky to have him, that he loves him and wants to hurt everyone who's ever laid a finger on him. But all he can do is sit and listen through these paper thin walls._

" _Grown quite a mouth, haven't you?" Rex's voice sounds dangerously calm. "Your little brother in there looks like he's got a pretty little mouth on him too. I'm sure he'll be more willing to beg."_

_And through the silence, Sam can hear Dean's defiance crumble. You could pull the teen apart limb from limb but it'll always be this that breaks him._

_Sam hates Rex for knowing this._

_Soon enough, there comes a quiet 'sorry' and the sound of lighter footsteps up the stairs. The bedroom door opens and shuts once again._

" _Will you behave now?" The rapist's voice is tentative, but there's a triumphant ring to it._

" _Yessir. Sorry sir." That's not Dean's voice. That's the sound of someone who's stopped putting up a fight, raw and hollow and oh-so-quiet. That's the sound of a living corpse._

_Sam retches and stumbles to the toilet bucket to empty his stomach. He rests on his knees, vomiting until he's reduced to dry heaves and sobs._

_The walls of this house are paper thin. And Sam finds he can hear everything._

When Rex came in with Dean in tow a couple of hours later, Sam tried to flash Dean a quick smile.

He wasn't looking their way. In fact, he seemed to be trying to look at anything but them. As he came closer with the plates and Sam started to take them from him, Dean said, "I'm sorry."

Sam looked at him, bewildered. "You mean for us being here? It's not your faul-"

"No, what I said earlier about my name. But I'm sorry for that too," Dean spoke quietly, staring at the floor.

Rex cleared his throat and Dean started to walk back. He'd only taken a couple of steps when their mum stood up for the first time in what must have been at least twelve hours. She walked over to her elder son, and wrapped her cold, weak arms around him.

"You're Dean Winchester. You always have been."


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted two chapters today so if you skipped to the last chapter, you may want to go back and read chapter 36 before this. Also, I'm sure the law is far less lax than this, please just excuse that. I really didn't want to write court scenes or things like that.

Dean followed his last client downstairs, hoping to get a drink and a chance to empty the toilet bucket before it overflowed. He hobbled down the stairs, wincing lightly each time another spike of pain made itself felt. With any luck, the damn bleeding would stop before it stained the seat of his dull grey trousers a rusty brown. To be fair, he'd kind of been asking for it. Dean had never quite managed to master the art keeping his trap shut.

" _So you're my date for tonight?" The client asks, loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his pressed shirt. It looks like he's rolling about in it, going by the Rolex he's got hanging off his wrist. Add to that a strong jawline and just the right amount of stubble and girls would probably even consider him handsome... if it weren't for the fact those cold eyes would have anyone with two legs and half a brain running in the opposite direction._

_Dean vaguely remembers something he'd read a while back about psychopaths having personality traits that make it easier to rise up the corporate ladder. This, combined with the decidedly sinister air that follows this man like cologne, has Dean saying, "Yeah, probably the only one that's not required Rohypnol."_

_Dean knows he's just booked himself a one-way ticket to Hell but even then he can't help but return the man's glare. That just pisses him off further and all small talk ends for the night._

_Half an hour later, when the man finally gets off Dean's back, when Dean's run out of tears and snot and swears, he slaps Dean's thigh and admires his handiwork. "You'll think of me tonight."_

' _Yeah, I'll burn a fucking effigy of yours' Dean thinks, "I'll make a voodoo doll and stick pins up its fucking jacksie.'_

_But this time, he stays silent._

Rex Hall was busy counting the money downstairs and writing down the figures on a pad of paper next to him.

"I need to empty mum and Sam's toilet bucket," Dean said quietly, leaning against the sink as he took large gulps of water to drown out the aftertaste of semen. How the hell did it taste so vile when more than half of it was sugar?

Rex's eye twitched with badly hidden rage. "Don't stand in your father's house and call that whore 'mum'."

Dean stemmed the urge to throw the glass at the man. "I spent fourteen years trying to follow orders, trying to make up for something I hadn't even known I'd done, and it was never enough." His grip on the tumbler tightened. "And that woman in the basement? She took me in despite knowing how fucked up I was. She and Dad have never laid a finger on me. God knows I deserved it. I nearly got their son killed twice, I've broken their stuff and I've even stolen their food. You'd have butchered me and buried the body by now. But they don't even yell. They just sit me down and talk to me and forgive me over and over again. So fuck you, yeah I'll call her mum." Dean knew he should probably stop-Christ, he wasn't an idiot-but he couldn't hold back. "Besides, you're not my father. You're my pimp."

Before he'd even had a second to catch his breath, Rex's hands were wrapped around Dean's throat. His lungs screamed in panic and his vision began to swim as he was slowly lifted up onto his toes by the strong grip.

"Well if I'm no more than your pimp I should get Sammy whoring for me too then. Doubling up my money sounds like a good idea to me. I'm sure he'll break real pretty." There was a malicious glint in those cold green eyes that told Dean he'd taken it too far.

Rex let go with one hand and pulled out his mobile phone, starting to scroll through the contacts as Dean's limp hands scrabbled at his fingers. "I'll just send a call through to Terry. I'm sure he'll have just as much fun tearing up little Sammy as he did with you."

There was no saving Sam now.

_He recalls the world the djinn had created for him. Sam, a broken shell of the boy he knows, telling him with dead eyes to leave the money on the table. Sam, no longer having dreams of becoming a lawyer or asking Jessica to the prom, coldly informing him that he won't do anything without protection. That boy wasn't Sam. It couldn't have been. That boy no longer had the ability to hope._

_Rex Hall has taken away Dean's childhood and innocence. He's taken away his dignity and self-worth. He's taken away all hopes of a future with the girl he loves. And Dean will give them all again if needed._

_Dean is a whore. A prostitute. A beat up hooker._

_Dean is a failure. The Ralph Wiggum of the class. The kid no one wants to adopt._

_Dean is free labour. The one that does the housework. The one you can lay into if you've had a bad day._

_Dean may be all of these. But above all, Dean is a big brother._

His arms shot up above his head and his forearms came slamming down on Rex's elbows. The man grunted and leaned in, loosening his grip and yet not letting go. The mobile phone fell out of his hand and clattered uselessly on the kitchen floor. Dean fought to stay conscious as he drove his knee up into the man's crotch.

Rex let out a garbled yell as his other hand fell away from Dean's neck and clutched his groin.

"You. Will. Not. Hurt. Sammy _."_  Dean growled, each word being punctuated by a solid punch. Dean put all the reserves of his strength into landing the hits again and again and again, recalling what Priya had told him about tucking his thumbs in and rotating his body to put more force behind each strike.

_This is for making me into a whore._

A quick uppercut.

_That's for keeping my family in the basement._

A solid right hook.

_And this is for making me believe for all these years that I was a murderer._

A reverse punch to the gut.

Skin had started peeling off his knuckles, giving way to gristle and bone. But Dean didn't care. Because, after seventeen years, he finally felt free.

When Rex seemed to be out cold, Dean ran to the basement door and reached into his left pocket. From inside, he pulled out two paperclips. The small scraps of metal had been his solace ever since he'd started carrying them, knowing that there would always be a way to pick locks, always a way to escape burning metal handcuffs.

He quickly straightened them and then folded the very end with his teeth. Desperately trying to recall how he used to do this, he slid the larger clip in and twisted it to create a tension wrench. Once that was set, he gently probed the pins with the smaller clip, hoping to feel a little of the tension give.

This continued for a good minute as his trembling hands felt out the five pins inside and slid them into the correct positions. Once done, the larger pin turned completely and the lock clicked open. Dean checked once over his shoulder to make sure that Rex was still out before slowly turning the knob and opening the door.

"Sam?" He called out into the shadows.

There was no reply. Instead, he heard quick footsteps and before he knew it, several arms were enveloping him in asphyxiating hugs. He fought his initial urge to fight off his attackers and slowly raised his arms and wrapped them around the two bodies.

"You're okay, you're okay," came the repeated litany from his brother.

"Yeah Sammy, 'm fine," Dean whispered back.

Mrs Winchester took a step back and appraised him. "I heard you say to not hurt Sam and then there were just the sound of hits and we had no clue if it was you or him or anything and oh god I was going crazy with worry-"

"Shh," Dean soothed her panicked words, meeting her gaze with a steady one of his own. "I'm really sorry about what I put you guys through, I-"

A weak spark of anger flared up in Mrs Winchester's eyes. "I swear to God, Dean, if you apologise one more time for  _anything_ … If anyone's to blame, apart from the man out there," she tilted her head towards the basement door, "it's me. Hell, I've spent the last year avoiding all conversations about your past. I never even bothered to check if Rex had been arrested, I'd just guessed he had."

"'S not your fault. I never wanted to talk about it anyway," Dean said roughly. "Forget it. Right now we need to get you guys out of here. I don't know how long he'll stay out."

Dean started to move towards the door with his mum in tow when Sam beat him to it. The kid was as fast as an eel, slipping out of the door and down the hallway.

"Wow, he's eager to leave," Dean shrugged, before holding his mum's hand and guiding her up the steps towards the light.

At the top, he paused at the sound of fists on skin and what sounded like Sam yelling. In a panic, he let go of Mrs Winchester and ran into the living room, hoping against hope that it wasn't what it sounded like.

It wasn't.

He'd been terrified to find Rex Hall, up and angry, pounding into his little brother. Instead, in front of him was a furious Sam Winchester, red-faced and narrow-eyed, kicking at the unconscious body of his brother's pimp.

"You bastard! You made him do all those…" Another strike to the man's stomach. "All those…  _things_." Sam paused to shudder with revulsion.

Dean rushed forward and grabbed his brother to drag him away. "Sam! You'll kill him."

"I don't care, I want to!" Sam struggled against Dean's weakened grip.

"Yeah but he's just human! He's just-"

At that point, there came a knock at the door. Both boys paused and looked towards the source of the sound.

"If that's another rapist I swear I'll beat the shit out of him too." Sam spoke with a finality that scared Dean. Who'd have guessed there was that much rage hidden within his floppy-haired baby brother?

_He used the word rapist. Why? Why not client or customer or-_

His thoughts were interrupted when their mum peered through the peephole in the door and called back, "It's Michael."

She was looking frantically for the keys when Dean brushed passed her and pulled out the paperclips again.

"Huh," his mum shrugged, "I found those in the lining of your pyjamas when I got them out of the wash. I was going to ask you about them."

"Yeah well," Dean grunted as the first pin slid into place, "when you've been handcuffed to red-hot radiators, you learn to carry around ways to get out."

Dean glanced at Mrs Winchester, but she just looked sadder than ever, so he turned back around and started working on the second pin. Slowly, he felt a little give as the pins slid into place once again.

"I'm gonna have so many fruit smoothies when I get back," Sam said to their mum, "I need to get the taste of ready meals out of my mouth."

"Don't we all?" said Dean. The last pin slid home and the thicker paperclip twisted with a click. He wrenched the door open and saw his dad stood a few metres away, looking confused.

"How did you do that?" he asked. "I could hear your voices from inside. I was just about to try ramming it down."

Mrs Winchester gave a weak laugh. "Good luck with that," she said, before wrapping her arms around her husband and whispering into his hair. "I was so scared. You don't know what I've heard over these last few days. You don't know what they did to our baby."

Dean listened to the quiet exchange and felt guilt spread its thin tendrils throughout his gut. He couldn't be the Heathcliff of the family anymore.

"You guys had better go, he'll wake up soon and he'll be pissed," Dean looked out into the distance as he spoke, not wanting to make the goodbye any more painful than it already was. He'd come into the Winchester household with a number promises to himself.

_I will make this a fresh start._

_I will behave and not be trouble._

_I will leave my past behind me._

_I will not trust these people._

_I will not grow attached._

_I will not allow myself to feel at home._

Each, in turn, had been broken. These people were everything Dean hadn't expected, and Dean was everything they'd hoped he wasn't.

"Sorry for calling you mum," whispered Dean, before turning back around to close the door on the closest thing he'd had to happiness.

Dean was ashamed to admit it, but the tears started soon after Mrs Winchester had gently laid a hand on his shoulder, turned him around, and said softly, "Hey, remember what I said about not apologising? You're my son, Dean Winchester, and nothing makes me prouder than to be your mother."

"We're not leaving you with him, Dean." Mr Winchester gave Dean what was probably intended as a smile but came out more like a grimace. "I'll send a call through to the police," he said as he stepped into the house and entered the living room. "Are these the handcuffs he used on you?" he asked, picking them up off the mantelpiece.

Dean nodded absentmindedly. "What will you say if you call the police? Do we lie and say I never knew him?"

His dad looked up from where he was busily handcuffing Rex to the radiator. "No Dean, we tell the truth. Any repercussions about your forged papers will be faced by me." The metal clicked into place and Mrs Winchester pocketed the key. "I'm quite tempted to turn the heating on to be honest. Give the bastard a taste of his own medicine."

Dean shook his head. The last thing he wanted was for his new dad to repeat his old dad's actions, no matter how badly he wanted to hurt the son of a bitch lying on the floor.

_Not that it matters. He's not likely to be your dad much longer. The police are going to arrive, take you away to the social services where you can be paraded in front of uninterested couples once again, and you'll never see the Winchesters again._

_What if they arrest Mr Winchester for the forged documents?_

Dean felt the burden of guilt drop heavily onto his shoulders for the hundredth time that day. He stood in stony silence as they waited for the cops, trying to take in every detail about the people around him so he had something to remember them by.

In the end, Dean needn't have worried. The police were far too interested in gathering all available evidence of Dean's extensive client list to give Mr Winchester any more than a stern telling off and excusing him on the basis of exceptional circumstances. They then escorted Dean into a separate room to take a statement (which he doubted they'd even need. There was no way Rex Hall wouldn't enter into a plea bargain and trade in some years of his sentence for more names from his paedophile ring), and ask a couple of questions.

' _Do you want to lodge a complaint against Mr and Mrs Pyper?'_

' _Do you want to continue to live with the Winchesters or do you want to be taken in by the social services?'_

_The policeman looks young and tired out, like he was well overdue for a cup of coffee. His voice is clinical and yet kind, a far cry from the only other policeman Dean's ever known. Dean almost feels bad for the guy. He was probably at home with his wife (by the looks of the wedding band on his finger), enjoying an evening in, when he got called to work to sort out some bizzaro paedophile ring case which involves a dirty little kid that snarls when touched. This was probably not what he'd signed up to the force for._

_Dean thinks about the questions and ends up asking, "Will the social services even take me in now I'm over sixteen?"_

_The officer gives a half-hearted shrug. "They have exceptional cases turn up from time to time."_

In the end, Dean had answered in the negative for the former question and the affirmative for the latter. Later, as the police took statements from Sam and his mum, Dean stood by and wondered if he'd made the right decision.

He didn't doubt his first answer. No matter what the Pypers had done to him, they were still Max's parents and that kid didn't deserve to see his parents taken away from him. Besides, the Pypers could afford to hire the best lawyers in town. No one was going to win a case against them. And what had they even done, anyway? A couple of hits and a few days without food? It wasn't worth whining over.

It was his answer to the second question that had him thinking. It all came down to the wording. Did he  _want_ to continue living with the Winchesters? Hells yeah.  _Should_ he continue living with them? Probably not.

Once the police were done with them, they were told to take Dean to the hospital. Dean walked over to the Impala with the help of his dad, wincing as he neared the leather seats.

"I'm not gonna be able to sit down on that," he mumbled, blushing furiously.

His mum's glance flew down to the rapidly growing stain on his trousers and back up again in a fraction of a second, her eyes swimming with sorrow. "It's okay, just lie down or something."

"Where's Sam gonna sit then?" asked Dean.

Sam went around the car and sat on the opposite side at the back. "You can put your head in my lap, I don't mind."

Dean shrugged and eased himself in. He lay on his side, trying not to trap the hand with the recently dislocated fingers, and rested his head on Sam's jeans. "I feel like I'm freakin' five," he grumbled.

"Does this mean I get to feed you chicken soup again?" Dean could hear the hint of a grin in Sam's voice.

"Don't bet on it." Dean mumbled as he ran his fingers over the leather of the front bench. He'd really missed the sound of the throttle, the way the car shook as it came alive. Its rhythmic humming, combined with the exhaustion of everything that had occurred, had Dean slipping away slowly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be back around 11th August. See you all then!


	38. Chapter 38

Jane parked the car and killed the engine. From behind her, she heard Sam gently call Dean's name and Dean's sleepy growl in response.

"C'mon Dean, we've got to get this over with," Michael called back over his shoulder.

One bleary eye slowly opened. "Why? I'm tellin' you 'm clean," Dean murmured. "Rex had a very strict policy of 'cover your stump before you hump'."

Jane felt Michael flinch at the phrase. "It's not because we think you're not clean. It's for your own wellbeing," Michael said softly. "You're still bleeding and you look like hell."

"Thanks for that, you look great too," Dean replied, sitting up slowly with a grunt. He wiped some drool off the side of his mouth and looked down at the seat. Jane followed his gaze and spotted the dark, wet stain.

"Fuck," they both said simultaneously.

Michael shot her a look and she immediately added, "Don't worry about that, it'll come off. We can take it off together and get her looking new again when we get back."

Dean just looked kind of sad at that. "I'm not going back with you guys," he looked out of the window as he spoke, his voice on the verge of breaking.

"Wh-what do you mean? Where else will you go?" asked Jane, taken aback. Apparently she wasn't the only one. Sam was also looking at Dean like he was speaking a foreign language.

"If you can drop me off near a job centre or something, that'd be great," Dean continued to look through the glass, "I'll find a job somewhere, I'll get by." The kid swallowed and closed his eyes before continuing. "You guys poured so much effort and money into me and what did I do? I ended up back where I came from. Hell, I even dragged you guys into my shit too."

Jane could feel Michael bristle at the swear, but was grateful when he let it pass. Instead he said, "We can go home and talk about this, Dean. You said yourself that you wanted to live with us."

Dean turned round to face them, his eyes torn between hope and resignation. "Yeah, I  _want_ to. But that doesn't mean I should. You guys are so  _normal_ , you don't need me dragging you down. And I need to tell you this now because you guys are gonna drive home from this hospital without me."

Michael was about to speak but Jane interjected, angry tears welling up in her eyes. "Now you listen to me Dean Winchester. You don't ever drag anyone down." She turned to look at both of her sons. "You know I hate lying, even to make people feel better. So you'd both better believe me when I say I'm incredibly proud of both of you.

"Sam, I'm really very sorry for the way I acted in the basement. You needed me to be strong and I fell apart. But you were brave, you kept us together. Dean, I might have been down there but I could hear what was happening. What you did wasn't you giving in and going back to square one or whatever else you think it was. It was, frankly, one of the bravest things I've ever witnessed. I wish he'd never given you that ultimatum, but I admire your love for your family and I understand your choice, we all do. Hell, it wasn't a choice at all and anyone who sees it as that had better take it up with me first," she heard her voice rise with anger at the memories of what she'd overheard over the last few days.

' _Such a good little slut. You'll bend over for anything.'_

' _You love this really, don't you?'_

She felt Michael's fingers brush gently over her forearm, grounding her back to the present conversation. She took a slow breath and continued. "No one in this car blames you for what happened apart from yourself."

Michael nodded and added, "We're all just glad you're okay. These last few days have been pretty bad for all of us and I think we could all do with just getting home and sorting through things. How does that sound to you?"

"Dad, you don't get it. What if something else happens because of me?"

"Then it happens." Sam stated. "You didn't see this coming, none of us did. If anything else happens, we'll deal with that too." Sam looked up at his father and gave a half-smile. "We have to persevere. We can't just give up on being a family because something bad happened." He looked back at Dean, "Besides, if you leave, who's going to call me midget and go wave-jumping with me?"

Dean looked around the car, gratitude dancing in his tear-stung eyes. "I don't get you guys," he said in a choked whisper, before clearing his throat. "You sure about this?"

The verdict was unanimous.

"'Course," whispered Sam.

Dean shrugged and looked away just as the tears brimmed over. "Okay then," he said, his voice heavy, as he reached over and opened the Impala door.

Michael got out and went over to help the kid out. He steadied Dean, letting go only when the kid seemed to be stood solidly. Sam got out after him and Jane followed a couple of steps behind the trio after locking up the car.

The doctor, a pretty young lady who seemed to recognise Dean and had him blushing head to foot, told them they'd get the results from the STD check in a few days, and that the anal fissure that was causing the bleeding would heal on its own over a couple of weeks. She wrote out a prescription for some painkillers and gave Sam full permission to feed Dean as much chicken soup as he wanted, much to Dean's dismay.

That was followed by the painful silence that accompanied waiting outside in the corridor as the doctors collected the medical evidence using a rape exam kit. Jane sat staring at the lonely drink dispenser, wondering why someone as kind and loyal and brave as her Dean would have to go through something like this. Just when they thought he'd got out, he got pulled back in again.

Dean came out of the examination room with dead eyes once again. Jane stood and offered Dean her seat but all he did was glance at it and quickly refuse.

"I swear, I ain't ever going in for one of those again," he said with a shudder.

"I hope you never have to." Jane extended a hand towards his shoulder, but pulled it back at Dean's flinch.

"Dean, we need to talk about therapy," Michael said quietly.

"I'm not crazy, I don't need to be stuffed full of pills," Dean growled.

"But you need to talk about what you've been through, the social services think so too." Michael sighed and stood up, his knees cracking from the exertion. "No one's going to give you any pills and no one's saying you're crazy. We know you don't want to talk to us about what's happened, but maybe you'd feel better talking to someone who can provide the appropriate help."

"There's nothing to help. I'm fine."

"You always say that," Sam looked up from the National Geographic issue he'd been poring over. "You never mean it, but you always say it. Why?"

Dean stared at Sam's quirked brow and questioning gaze for a while before replying with a shrug and turning to look at Jane with wet eyes. "Mum, can we just go home now?"

"We need to talk-" Michael started to say, but Jane stopped him with a quick look and a nod. The conversation could wait 'til a later date. For now, her son had called her Mum and asked to go home.

"Okay, I'll just talk to the doctors and then we can go home," said Jane.

Ten minutes later, Jane was shifting her baby into reverse, watching Dean's subtle winces through the wing mirror as he tried to not disturb the bandages covering his torso. He was sat on the seat like it was on top of a pressure mine, seeming to feel every bump and pothole in the road as if he'd been road-hauled across it. Next to him, Sam was staring out of the window at the other passing cars, occasionally glancing at his brother with a look of concern tinged with awe.

When Jane had lost her baby daughter, she'd been convinced that the hole left by her absence could never be filled. And maybe it couldn't. But it was no longer as big and aching a chasm as it once had been. Because now there were two boys, and they seemed to take up a hell of a lot of the room.

"What do you all want for dinner when we get back?" asked Jane.

"Can I have a peanut butter and banana sandwich?" asked Sam. Not waiting for the answer, he quickly added, "With peanut butter on both pieces of bread."

Jane rolled her eyes and met Sam's gaze with her own through the rearview mirror. "That was one time. I've put it on both sides ever since."

"Yeah, well I just thought I'd remind you in case you forgot," said Sam, a hint of a grin in his voice.

"One bloody time," sighed Jane.

"What about you, Dean?" asked Michael.

A silence settled over the car as Dean thought about his answer.

"I dunno," Dean eventually said with a shrug.

Jane bit back a sigh as she watched Dean stare at his fidgeting hands.

_Christ, can't he demand pizza or something like other teens just this once?_

Dean looked up, catching Jane's eyes before diverting his gaze to Michael. "But can I have seconds of whatever we're having?"

Jane felt a part of her break while another part of her simultaneously reformed. She'd waited patiently at every meal for the day Dean would finally believe that asking for seconds wasn't going to have any repercussions. The kid who so dearly loved food could still not help himself to more than one slice of pie.

But Dean's words were a testament to how far they'd come. She turned to glance at Michael, but was surprised to see him rubbing at his eyes and sniffling slightly. His voice was on the verge of cracking when he spoke.

"'Course you can, son."

* * *

Dean felt heat rising up off the tarmac and through the soles of his shoes as he slowly walked out of the school gates, willing his feet to keep going despite knowing what awaited him when he got home. He missed the presence of his gangly, girlie-haired little brother by his side. They'd normally walk home together, Sam filling him in on every little detail of what had happened during the day while Dean listened and responded, occasionally throwing in an exaggerated fake yawn to annoy the kid. But Sam was on a school trip to a natural history museum that day, probably busy drooling over fossils and dinosaur exhibits, leaving Dean on his own.

He rounded the corner of the school street when he heard someone call his name.

"Dean! Wait up!" Dean turned to see Priya running towards him, waving something in the air. "You left your product design folder on the table." She caught up and panted as she held out the folder.

"Uh, sorry about that," Dean said, taking his bag off his back and putting the folder in.

Priya straightened up with a groan and looked at him. "You okay? You've kind of been out of it all day."

Dean's first reaction was to start scrolling through potential lies he could use. He'd already told her that he'd not been in school because of a stomach bug, maybe he could tell her that it was playing up again?

_But you can trust her. You know you can. She's had every opportunity to leave your sorry ass behind and yet she's stayed every time._

Glancing down at his watch and noting that the hour of judgement was now ten minutes closer than it had been the last time he'd looked, he said, "I've got to get going, but I'll tell you along the way."

"Okay, I'll walk you home," she said, starting to walk off ahead of him.

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. "Be sure to hold my hand when we're crossing the road."

A grin flashed across Priya's face. "You'll regret saying that soon."

"You hold my hand when we're crossing the road and I swear I'll hunt you down when you least expect it. You'll have to start sleeping with one eye open." He clumsily zipped up his bag and swung it onto his back, only to curse when it collided with the lacerated skin.

Priya stopped and quickly turned back, "Hey, you alright?" she asked, concern flooding her face.

"Yeah," Dean grunted, "I'm okay."

"Give me the bag, I'll carry it," she took the bag without waiting for a reply and hefted onto her back along with her own.

Dean would usually have grumbled about being treated like a child and taken it back, but it was actually quite a relief to not feel the cotton of his shirt chafing against his back every time he took a step. "Thanks."

Bookworm merely nodded in acknowledgement and carried on walking.

"You know how I'd said I'd been sick on Monday and that's why I'd not been in school?" Dean watched as Priya inclined her head in curiosity and nodded. "Yeah, well, I'd actually been in Gildering. My father –well, more my biological father- had taken me back to his house so he could hire me out again. He took Sam and Mum too for leverage." Dean fought the rage bubbling up within him at the memory of Sam's terrified face as the gun prodded his temple.

He turned his head to look at Priya's reaction, shame colouring his cheeks in anticipation, but found no one there. Turning round, he saw that Priya had stopped walking.

"What?" she said dumbly.

"I didn't want to go back," the pathetic excuses tumbled from Dean's mouth on instinct. "He said he'd make Sam-"

"Where is he?" Priya interjected, her hands balled into tight fists by her side. "I'm going to break his face in. You just tell me where he is." Dean had never seen the girl so consumed by anger.

"He's in prison now. He pleaded guilty and got a life sentence," said Dean, watching as some of the fury abated and a milder look of sorrow took its place.

"Why wasn't he in jail before this?" she asked, her voice a little softer now, coming towards him. "When you were first taken from him, why didn't anyone go to the police?"

Dean shrugged. "The doctors thought he was just a guy who was bad at raising a son on his own. He acted like all he wanted was for his son to be okay. Hell, even I nearly believed it. They gave me over to the social services without getting the police involved. When I got there I wouldn't let anyone touch me, let alone check me for evidence of abuse. I guess I'm just lucky I don't have any STDs."

Priya just looked kind of sad at that. She nodded and kept walking.

"I hope he drops a lot of soap in jail," Dean muttered bitterly.

Priya smiled wanly, "I dunno about wishing something like that upon someone else, but I get where you're coming from."

Dean looked up at the girl as they turned the corner onto his street. A few strands of hair had slipped out of her ponytail and were currently swinging in front of her eyes. She brushed them away in frustration. "I'm guessing he's the one that did your back in again then?" she asked. "I swear you've not sat properly on a chair without flinching in like a week."

Dean shrugged. "The painkillers wear off." He extended his arm and gently rested his fingers on Priya's shoulder. She stopped short and turned round to face him. "Priya, I swear I was done with that stuff. I really hadn't wanted to go back, I swear on my life. Hell, I swear it on yours. It's just, he said he'd make Sam do it and-" Dean paused as his voice hitched, then resumed. "And I couldn't let them do that. You remember that djinn?"

Priya nodded. "How could I forget?"

"The world he put me into… it wasn't perfect. Hell, it was pretty fucking far from that. And Sam… in that world he was a hooker, like me. Fuck, he literally was me. He'd pretty much gotten my life and I'd gotten his. And he was so shattered, Priya, I-I don't even know how to describe it. That wasn't Sam anymore, that was a living corpse that just looked like him. And so when Rex threatened to do that to Sam if I didn't play along, I-I just, you know, went along and became a whore again. I just gave in."

"Dean, you don't have to justify anything to me," Priya said gently. She looked at Dean, but there was no judgement in her expression, just a lightly quivering lip and wet eyes. "I know you'd never go back to that out of choice. And I get why you gave in. I'd like to say I'd be brave enough to do the same if it were Sonali who was being threatened but who knows? I might have been too scared."

"You think that was brave? I willingly slept with men for money and you think that was brave? I'm having to go to therapy sessions because of what I did and you think I'm brave?" Dean scoffed, his eyes narrowing in disbelief.

Priya sighed and her shoulders slumped. "Why don't you ever give yourself a break, Dean? Quit hating yourself and hate Darth Vader or something for a bit. And before you say Darth Vader's not all that bad, I know, but you get the point I'm making," she added, brushing Dean's protests aside. "Free will's not the same as coercion, Dean. And going to therapy sessions doesn't make you weak either."

Dean didn't know what to say to that. Instead, he watched her angrily shove the stray hairs that had fallen in front of her face again behind her ear. "You're way too good for me, Bookworm," he said finally.

A small grin appeared on her face. "'Course I am. I'm freakin' wonderful." The smile wavered. "But I'm serious Dean, promise me you'll at least try to give yourself a break?"

Dean shrugged, breaking down under the sincere gaze. "Okay."

Priya seemed to be satisfied with that and gave him a quick nod before starting to walk back up the road. They hadn't gotten much further when the Impala came roaring down the street, screeching to a halt a little in front of them. Dean's mum stepped out and gestured them over impatiently.

"We're going to be late for the appointment if we don't get going," she said, sliding back into the driver's seat as Dean opened the door on the other side and got in, gritting his teeth as another tendril of pain shot up his spine.

"Thanks," said Dean, as Priya handed his bag over. "And thanks for, you know, what you said," he added gruffly, hating the way all the blood in his body had decided to travel to his cheeks.

"No worries, talk to me if you ever need to," she said as she leaned against the doorframe and peered in through the window, before looking up to smile at Dean's mum. "I'll see you all later."

Mum smiled back and started up the engine, waiting for Priya to remove her hand and step away before flooring the accelerator and getting them off to a jerky start.

"She's a good kid," she remarked, watching as the car behind decided to overtake them despite them doing the speed limit.

"Yeah, she is," Dean replied, smiling down at his lap.

They sat in silence for most of the journey until his mum couldn't take it anymore and started speaking.

"I know you don't like talking about stuff, and I know you don't want to go to this, but you know what the social services said. They won't let you stay with us unless they're convinced you're getting the right emotional support. So let's just make the best of this, huh?" Mum's voice sounded almost desperate. Dean knew why. She'd been beating herself up about her previous reluctance to talk to him about his past and he guessed she saw this therapy as a baby step towards making amends. Despite Dean's repeated insistence that it wasn't her fault, that he'd been a stubborn son of a bitch and that's what had caused everything that happened, she'd continued to place the blame on her own shoulders.

Nevertheless, Dean still didn't feel like he was really ready to pour his heart out to some shrink who'd sit there and silently judge him. But if his mum was asking him to, he'd at least give it a shot. "Yeah, okay."

The clinic was situated centrally in the town and Mrs Winchester was soon pulling up in an empty parking spot. Dean looked out of the window at the scarcely filled car park, dreading walking into the building and having his most shameful memories and experiences documented in black and white.

"Michael and I wanted you to know we think what you're doing is really brave," his mum said from the side.

"A lot of people seem to be calling me brave today," Dean remarked.

She smiled at that, before looking down at her watch and giving him a gentle nudge. "You'd best get going, the session starts in two minutes."

Dean nodded and got out of the car, feeling his feet become heavy blocks of lead almost instantaneously. He walked over to the entrance door and pulled it open. Before entering, he turned to look out over the car park again. Mum shot him a thumbs-up from inside the Impala.

_This is probably going to be a big, steaming pile of shit, but you've promised to give this a go. You've promised that to them all._

With that thought, Dean Winchester stepped inside.


	39. Chapter 39

**Six months later**

Sam turned over onto his stomach and felt the present under his pillow for the fifth time that night. His fingers brushed against the cold metal and felt out the ridges under his skin.

Dean was turning eighteen tomorrow. Well, he already had by the time on the clock by Sam's bedside table. Eighteen. That was pretty big. Dean would soon not even been a teenager anymore, and to think Sam was still only entering his teenage years.

Dean would be an adult now, ready to go to college and live his own life. Sam buried his head in his pillow and tried not to think of life without that dick around the house. Who would he prank then? Who would he discuss ghosts and werewolves with? Who'd sneak into his room and sing Hey Jude to him if he had a nightmare about clowns?

Of course, Dean knew about Sam's fears. Sam had told him about them after the jerk had cornered him and asked him what was up when Sam had looked sad at Dean's acceptance offer from university.

" _Nothing, it's cool," Sam turns away to try and get up to his room where he can be alone with his thoughts._

" _Hey, no, something's up. What's the matter, Sam? Is it because I got an offer? Shit, are you upset because I'm doing well in school? Because you know you'll always be way cleverer than me, Sammy. I'm a grunt, I don't even know why they accepted me-"_

_Sam cuts off Dean's self-deprecating ramble, hating the fact Dean could even think Sam would be upset about the fact Dean's intelligent. "No, no, it's not that. You deserve the place and I'm really glad you're doing well in school." He stops there and tries to avoid those piercing green eyes._

" _What is it then?" Dean asks softly._

" _It's just-" Sam stares at the hem of his shirt, wringing it with the tips of his fingers, "it's just, you're gonna go to university and then you're gonna forget me and we'll not get to hang out anymore, you know, as brothers, and then-"_

_It's Sam's turn to be cut off as Dean wraps his arms around the kid's shoulders and pulls him in for a hug. "Aww c'mon, now you're being the stupid one here; as if I could forget you. We're never not gonna be brothers." He pulls out of the hug and gives a small smile at Sam's furious attempts to blink away tears. "Besides, I'll be coming home for all the holidays. And when I do, you've gotta fill me in on whatever new fugly you've been reading about, okay?"_

_Sam nods. "And I get to make you chicken soup?" he asks tentatively._

_Dean groans. "Oh God Sammy, I'm never coming back if you threaten me with that!"_

_Sam grins and punches Dean's shoulder. "It's Sam."_

" _Yeah, sure, whatever."_

Sam pulled out the present from under his pillow and twisted it between his fingers, letting the pale moonlight catch on the polished brass. Even if Dean was going to leave him, at least he'd have something to remember him by. The idea had come from one of the hunting journals Sam had been flicking through. Once he had the design sorted, it had taken a couple of months of sneaking into the product design labs in school while Dean wasn't about to make it.

The pendant was supposed to be an Egyptian protective charm, though Sam wasn't sure if it'd actually work. Nonetheless, he wanted Dean to have it. There was a hell of a lot of evil out there and far too much of it seemed to have its eyes set on Dean.

Unable to wait any longer, Sam slid out of bed and padded across the room to the door, the amulet in his hand. Out on the landing, he could see Dean's door hanging slightly ajar. Sam walked over and peered inside, deciding not to wake his brother if he'd already fallen asleep.

Dean was stood speaking to himself at the windowsill.

"Hell, this is stupid," the gruff whisper floated over to where Sam stood. "I don't even know if you're up there." Dean sighed and craned his neck up at the stars. "But if you are, I want you to know I'm safe. I'm with some really good people who see me as their own. I've got parents and this little brother and there's this girl who I really like and she likes me but she refuses to make it official but that's okay-" he paused his garbled stream to let out a quiet chuckle. "Hell, why am I even telling you all this? You can see this for yourself. I dunno if you thought your husband was doing the right thing, and for ages I thought he was. But no one seems to agree with me. And you know what? Even I don't seem to agree with me anymore. Because there are other people, better people, who care about me and I actually  _want_ to care about them. Not because they're blood, but because they're family. So yeah, I'm really happy here and I wanted you to know that."

Sam coughed and entered the room. Dean whipped his head round. "Sam? How long have you been there?"

"Not long," Sam shrugged, not wanting to admit to his inadvertent eavesdropping.

"Shouldn't you be in bed? It's way past bedtime for midgets like you."

Sam rolled his eyes, though Dean probably couldn't see the action in the darkness. "I'm a good couple of inches taller than you, Dean. You've got to think of a new nickname."

"How 'bout Sasquatch?"

"Wow, that was so hilarious I nearly peed myself." Sam deadpanned before remembering what was in his hand and why he'd come to Dean's room in the first place. "And I came here to give you your present."

Dean looked pretty flustered at the word 'present'. A crinkled brow of confusion battled with a small grin for dominance on his face. "What the hell are you, a vampire? You couldn't just wait 'til daylight like everyone else, could you?" he grunted, before looking up at the stars once again and shooting them a quick smile.

Sam went over, dodging the pile of books lying open from a recent physics project, and pulled Dean's hand out into the light streaming in from the window. "It's an Egyptian amulet. I didn't want to give it to you later when everyone else would be there."

Dean's fingers slowly closed around the cold brass that Sam had spent so long shaping, gratitude and awe dancing in those clear green eyes. "Uh, thanks, I-I don't know what to say."

"It'll keep you safe while you're at college," Sam said, feeling a deep warmth ignite within him as he watched Dean slip the locket over his head and nod. A part of Sam had been scared Dean would laugh at the present and return it, along with some cocky comment about how he didn't need protection from anything. But here he was, so ready and willing to wear the present, looking at Sam like he'd given him half the moon on a silver platter.

"Where did you get it from?" asked Dean.

"I made it. I helped clean up the product design labs after school in return for the metal and access to their equipment. You remember how I'd been having rehearsals for a school play after school nearly every day?" Sam asked and Dean nodded, his lip curling upwards slightly as he put two and two together. "Yeah, well, I was in the design lab, making this."

"I thought it was a bit weird how the play suddenly got cancelled two weeks ago," Dean remarked, the smirk more prominent now.

"I'd finished making it by then and they said I didn't have to help tidy up the lab anymore," Sam shrugged, "so I didn't see the point in staying back any longer."

Dean looked down at his chest where the amulet lay against his sternum. "You-" his voice cracked a little, so he cleared his throat before resuming, "you went through all that to make me a present?"

"It wasn't all that much," said Sam. "Besides, I felt really bad for not getting you a present last year."

"You'd not known it was my birthday."

"Yeah, but even then, you still got me that book." Sam paused, then added with a grin, "By the way, Jess wanted to thank you for getting me  _Curtain_  because after reading it I had to admit to her that Poirot was actually pretty cool."

The washed out light of the moon caught the edges of Dean's shit-eating grin. "Just marry her already, will you?"

"God, Dean!" Sam blushed furiously. He reached out and gave the jerk a light shove. "It's not like that," he mumbled.

"Sure it isn't," Dean's grin grew wider. "Sammy and Jessica sitting in a tree… K-I-S-S-I-N-G"

"How are you eighteen already?" Sam stared at the kid-no,  _adult_ -in disbelief.

The grin fell from Dean's face and he looked out of the window once again. "I dunno, I didn't think I'd get to see eighteen," he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else.

Sam's chest tightened as he remembered the horrific events of last summer. Dean still had nightmares sometimes, though they'd lessened dramatically since he'd started therapy. He'd come home from every session and grumble about how he was never going through that again, but Sam and their parents could see they were helping. Dean wasn't scared to ask for things or voice his opinions anymore. Like the other day, Sam had asked Dean to come kick around the football for a bit, but Dean had declined and said he needed to get his project done. Sam had never thought it would feel that good to hear someone say 'no'.

"Yeah, well, you're with us now, and I'm not going to let anyone ever hurt you again," said Sam, trying to keep his voice from quivering.

Dean turned round from the glass; his hand was twisting the thread holding the amulet up. He met Sam's gaze. "Thanks, Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes, "You've gotta stop calling me that, jerk."

Dean let out a small laugh and bumped his shoulder against Sam's.

"Like Hell I will, bitch."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had always planned the end of this story to be the epilogue, but I know a few people wanted a happy ending and I can completely understand that. Dean's been through such a bad time, it'd be nice if he could just live happily ever after.
> 
> Hence, I'd like to give you two alternate endings.
> 
> One, you can imagine that this is where the story pretty much ends. Dean and Sam grow up and go off to university and one becomes a lawyer and the other an engineer as they'd both wanted. Dean ends up with Priya and Sam with Jess and they both live happily married lives with lots of little Winchesters to get under their feet. They grow old as brothers, sharing in each other's triumphs and losses, living to a ripe old age, both vehemently arguing that the other has more wrinkles.
> 
> Alternatively, you can proceed to the epilogue. This is the ending I'd originally intended, but it is not exactly what I'd call a happy ending. Nevertheless, it ties things together a little better and links back quite nicely to canon. Warnings for the epilogue include spoilers for the Pilot and character deaths. I promise I do not kill the brothers.
> 
> Either way, please leave me your thoughts in the comments section. In particular, I'd love it if you could take a moment to answer the following questions:
> 
> 1\. Which ending did you pick and why?
> 
> 2\. How did you find this story?
> 
> 3\. Are there any extra scenes you'd really like to see?
> 
> There is a companion piece called Five Times Priya Said No to Dean, and the One Time She Said Yes which is mainly about Dean, Priya and Sam. It can be read with either ending.
> 
> You may also be interested in the Author Notes on livejournal (http://deansamcas.livejournal.com/12345.html), which contains replies to any guest reviews and a song playlist for the characters.
> 
> Thank you for reading; I hope you've enjoyed the ride.


	40. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warnings:** Blood, gore and death. I swear not all of the epilogue is depressing though.

**Nine Years Later**

_It's January and the university holidays have just ended. He's in the last year of his bachelor's degree of engineering, which is working him like a bitch but it still feels fucking awesome to see a project come together. Part of him can't wait to get out there and start working on a real job, while another part wants to stay in college forever._

_Even then, he's only a week into the next semester and he's starting to feel mildly burnt out. But that's okay, because he's come home for the weekend for his birthday. In fact, his mum has specially requested it this year._

_Dean sits on the couch and looks around the living room. Somehow, a smattering of dust has accumulated on the mantelpiece in the five days he hasn't been there. Dean gets up, grabs a cloth, and starts cleaning._

_Old habits die hard._

_But it's different now. He's not doing this because he thinks the Winchesters will kick him out or because he knows he'll be hurt if he doesn't. He's doing this for himself, because he wants to._

_Mum walks in just as he's finishing up, the large grin on her face faltering by a fraction as she spots what he's doing. She's still not got to grips with the fact Dean is solely cleaning for himself and not to please her. Dean knows she worries he's never going to be able to escape his past._

_And maybe he won't. Because he still has nightmares, still dreams of nights locked in a dank cupboard, still thinks about what might have happened if he'd not been able to protect Sammy. But they're more infrequent now. He buries it all under work from college and thoughts about how to hustle a game of pool in order to have to borrow less money from his parents. But once again that's not because they tell him to, it's because he wants to. And that makes all the difference in the world._

_The door swings open and the rest of his family come in._

" _Stick out your hand," mum says, moving her arm out from behind her._

_Dean gives her a puzzled look then does as he's told. She drops the keys to the Impala into them._

" _Uhh, you just dropped your keys," Dean says, reaching out to hand them back._

_Dad shakes his head with a soft smile. "Happy birthday, son."_

_Dean frowns down at the (common as fuck and yet precious all the same) metal in his palm. This can't be true. He didn't just get given the Impala. "You guys serious?"_

" _Uh huh," Mum says, while Sam slips out of the door. "It's yours now, Dean. But you'll take your old lady out for a ride sometimes, won't you?" she adds with a wink._

_He can already imagine the purr of the engine, the hum of the seats, the solid feel of the steering. "'Course," he barely manages to choke out. This is even better than the time they told him he was allowed to drive it._

_Sam comes back in again and says, "Guess who else is here?"_

_The door swings open once more and Dean looks up to see Priya standing in the doorway._

" _Happy birthday, Freckles," she says softly._

_Dean jumps off the couch, strides over to her, and wraps her in his arms before anyone has a chance to speak. He buries his face in her hair, taking in the smell of sweat and shampoo and trains. She must have come up from London just for him. He knows she has a project to hand in the next week so she'll probably be getting the train back the next day. They haven't met in over three months now, and while they message each other regularly and Dean knows exactly when each of her assignments are due in and which professors bother her and which ones don't and what she had for lunch and what she's planning to make for dinner (it's scary how often their conversations end up revolving around food), it's just not the same as seeing each other face to face._

" _God, I've missed you," Dean whispers into her hair before gently letting go._

_He can see Mum and Dad and Sam smiling over her shoulder. They all look so happy, he wants to take a picture and get it framed to put on his bedside table at college._

_Dean's pretty sure no birthday can ever live up to this one._

The lights changed to green and Dean shifted his foot on the pedals, slowly creeping the car forward, his thumb still tapping out the tune of 'Fire of Unknown Origin' on the wheel. He briefly wondered if Sam would have left some pie out from him, seen as they'd all have eaten by the time he got home.

Damn road works, keeping him away from his pie.

Then again, shop bought pie was never going to be as good as Dad's homemade ones, but ever since arthritis had slowly crippled his fingers he hadn't been much good at baking. Instead, whenever Sam and Dean came over to visit, they'd buy him whatever kind of pie he felt like and they'd share it over the evening meal.

_It's meant to be apple pie today. Made by the baker in that small shop around the corner from the supermarket, the one that always goes a little crazy with the sugar, the way you like it._

… _Stupid fucking road works._

Dean growled in frustration as his stomach rumbled and he hit his fists against the steering wheel, before quickly rubbing the spot and apologising. "Sorry, baby. It's just these stupid fucking queues."

_'Remember what we said about swearing?'_

He could hear Priya's doubtful voice in his head, reflecting his own uncertainty about what they were going to try to do.

_Priya lays a hand on her stomach again, the wedding ring catching the light as she does so. Dean had ended up proposing near Christmas a couple of years ago, merely days before she was about to propose herself. It was cold and his knees were getting wet in the snow. They were in the field by the school, the same one where they'd first admitted to loving each other. He was terrified she'd say no, that she'd have realised how she could do so much better than him. But then she'd knelt down next to him and whispered that trivial, insignificant, three letter word that meant everything to him. And suddenly, he'd felt nothing but warmth._

_They'd been married a year when Priya announced she was pregnant. She's three months in now and everything's going well, but they seem to have hit upon a little problem._

_And that's that both of them have no fucking control over their mouths._

" _The books all say that you should avoid bad language in front of children until they're at an age when they can appreciate when bad language can and can't be used," she says tentatively. Dean can understand her hesitation. Priya can practically out-swear his mum if she's having a bad day. "But we're gonna give this a go, right?"_

_Dean nods then asks, "Does this mean we don't get to sing along to 'Hair of the Dog' then?"_

_Bookworm grins and shrugs. "Every rule's got to have a loophole I guess."_

Two months later and Dean was still finding the whole 'no bad language' rule a pain in the ass. When Sam had heard about it, he'd simply grinned and said, "Dad'll love it."

Watching Sam grow up made Dean a little sad sometimes. He was no longer the twelve year Dean had met in the Pypers' garden, he was now a grown man with a girlfriend and a law degree. But some things never changed.

_Dean takes a moment to smile at the label on the door that reads 'Sam Winchester and Jessica Moore'. The midget got round to asking the girl out finally for his high school prom and they'd been together ever since. A part of Dean has always been thankful to Sam's friend, Brady, for finally managing to convince the kid to ask her to prom. Otherwise Dean would probably still be stuck with a mopey Sam who was convinced he was the world's worst victim of unrequited love._

_He enters the door without knocking, grinning inwardly in anticipation of Sam's look of surprise and the dimpled smile that will surely follow when he sees who the unexpected visitor is. Dean's driven for six hours straight to get to Sam's college in time to give him his birthday present._

_There's no look of surprise, no grins and exclamations of "Dean! How did you get here?"_

_There are only tear-stung eyes and frantic scrambling to shut the laptop._

_Dean doesn't know what to make of that. "You looking at porn again, Sammy? You know what I said about that…" Sam rolls his eyes and Dean forces a strained grin, "Send me links to any good stuff you find," he finishes with a wink._

" _You're disgusting," Sam says, not looking at him. Dean can't ignore the crack in his voice and the bags under his eyes any longer._

" _What's up? You look like someone's spoilt the end of Marley and Me for you." Dean goes over, the peanut butter and banana sandwich with the candles on top he'd been holding behind his back forgotten. "What was onscreen?"_

" _Nothing. It doesn't matter," Sam's voice is resigned, which convinces Dean it matters all the more._

" _Don't make me open it for myself, kid," Dean growls in a mock serious tone that manages to elicit a small smile from his brother._

" _You'd not be able to get past the password, Dean. You're no Ash."_

" _Sure I can. It's gotta be 'I-heart-Jessica-Moore', what else could it be?"_

_Sam just huffs a little and opens the laptop up again. He quickly types in a password (which Dean is sure contained the word 'Batman') and his college online portal comes up. "It's really nothing. Just this one professor…" Sam trails off and his eyes dart around the room, avoiding the laptop completely._

_Dean leans over, his shoulder reminding him painfully of the candle-laden sandwich he's holding behind his back, and reads the assignment reports onscreen. They're all by the same professor, a Dr Rumarik._

' _Sam Winchester's work is far below a satisfactory standard, his referencing is shoddy and he displays little to no understanding of the subject.'_

' _Sam Winchester does not put any effort into his classes and seems to have an issue with authority.'_

' _Sam Winchester is not suited to this law course. It is possible he is not suited to academic life in general. He is not willing to try in his assignments and is disruptive in lectures.'_

_Dean looks up at his brother. The kid's nose is flaring and his throat is bobbing as he attempts to swallow down a sob. His general demeanour makes Dean want to hurt this Dr Rumarik son of a bitch pretty fucking badly._

" _I-I swear I try in his classes. I try in all my classes. But this guy, he's had it in for me from the day one because I asked him a question he couldn't answer. I mean, that's just stupid, isn't it? To just hate someone because they asked a question?"_

_Dean doesn't reply. He doesn't have to. They both know the answer and Dean has a question of his own. "Why didn't you tell me about this?"_

_There's no reply. Sam just shrugs and continues to stare into space._

" _Sam, I don't care if you got a full ride to college and brilliant exam results, you're a freaking idiot sometimes," Sam flinches a little at Dean's borderline yelling and Dean tones it down a little. "You should have told me this was happening. It's my job to look out for you."_

" _It's not, Dean. I'm twenty-one now, I don't need you to watch out for me," Sam speaks in a clipped voice, staring straight ahead. "It's because I knew you'd freak out that I didn't tell you."_

_If Dean said those words didn't hurt him, it'd be a lie._

" _Just trying to help," he tries to say it as nonchalantly as possible. He kinda misses the Sammy that would have loved the word 'nonchalantly'._

_They sit in silence for a few minutes until Dean shifts his arm to a more comfortable position._

" _What have you got there?" asks Sam, noticing Dean's hidden hand for the first time._

_Dean shrugs and stares down at the wooden floorboards, tracing the tessellations. "Just a little present, but it's okay if you don't like it."_

_He brings out the slightly squashed sandwich, complete with the '2' and '1' shaped candles he's jammed on the top, from behind his back. It's not done with the flourish he'd been planning while driving, but then again, none of this has gone how he'd planned it while driving. The present now looks stupid and tacky. What was he thinking? Sam didn't care about peanut butter and banana sandwiches anymore. Sam didn't need Dean anymore._

_Dean's about to turn around and leave, he plans to go to his car and turn on the music really loud until he can't feel anything anymore. Maybe something will finally go to plan today._

_As always, it doesn't._

_There's a sound of chair legs scraping against wood and Dean turns around to see Sam standing up, his lips quivering, his slanted eyes filled with awe and love and guilt in equal measure. Before Dean knows it, he's wrapped in Sam's arms, his breath being squeezed out of him._

" _Sorry, Dean," Sam whispers, "I don't mean it. I-I just say crap sometimes an-and just 'cause I feel like shit right now doesn't make it okay for me to take it out on you," his voice breaks as he speaks and a hitched sob escapes. "I don't know what to do about this professor," he mumbles into Dean's shoulder._

" _Can't. Breathe." Dean chokes. Sam loosens his grip and Dean looks (up, unfortunately. The kid's a giant now, much to Dean's eternal dismay) at Sam. It doesn't matter how old or tall or qualified Sam gets, he's always gonna be a snot-nosed little brother in Dean's eyes. "You just tell me where I can find this professor, I'll go have a word with him."_

" _No, no, I don't want you to do anything like that," Sam says hurriedly. They both know if this guy starts badmouthing Sam too much in front of Dean he'll go ape-shit on his ass, like he does with the odd ghost or demon he still hunts at weekends._

" _Well what are you meant to do if you've got a problem with your professor?" Dean asks. He genuinely doesn't know. He never had a problem with his professors at college. They were a relaxed bunch and Dean got the work done quickly and efficiently every time so they never had reason to complain._

" _I can go to the head of the department or to my pastoral care tutor," Sam replies, biting his lip. "But I dunno if I want to. What if I'm just making a big deal out of this?"_

" _Those aren't fair comments, Sam," he waves a hand at the laptop screen, "That's a guy being a douchebag. I know you and I believe you when you say you try in his lessons. What do your other professors say?"_

" _They say I'm on track for a first and my work's exceptional," Sam mumbles sheepishly._

_Dean grins at that and murmurs "that's m'boy" before adding, "So it's just this guy. And if you have copies of the assignments you submitted on your laptop, you can maybe ask for them to be remarked."_

_Sam nods. "Yeah, okay, I'll do that." He stands a little straighter and meets Dean's gaze properly for the first time. "Thanks for the sandwich, Dean, and I didn't mean what I said earlier."_

_Dean rolls his eyes and takes a step back. "God, you're such a girl sometimes."_

" _And you're as emotionally stunted as ever," Sam quips back._

The car cruised down the empty suburban streets, following the winding roads until it was slowly crawling up the hill to the house. It was nice to be back in Moreton again, the familiar roads were always accompanied by a heavy feeling of nostalgia. Even though both brothers were living away from home now, Sam at college and Dean further south with Priya, they'd agreed that they'd go visit their parents together whenever they could. As Sam's course had finished and both Dean and Priya had managed to get some leave from work, they'd decided to spend a week around Halloween with their parents.

Dean parked the car and killed the engine, wondering if Priya would still be up or if she'd have called it a night. The lights were all off, so they were probably all in bed by now.

Driven by the thought of soon having a baby in the house, and as he was going up to near the car manufacturing plant anyway, Dean had agreed to help sort out a couple of design queries from the manufacturers for a healthy bonus at the end of the month. Besides, he'd really wanted to see the engine design he'd spent the last four months working on come together in the factory. Little did he know they were would be such a huge jam on the motorway which would result in him getting home at one in the morning.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, he opened the front door, hung up the keys, and made his way upstairs. There was his parents' door to the far right, Sam and Jess were behind the door next to that, and finally on the left was Dean and Priya's room.

Dean slid inside and whispered a tentative, "Priya?"

There was no reply. Dean padded over to the bed, hoping to find her prone, lightly snoring (not that she'd ever admit it. Then again, Dean didn't mind. He knew he still screamed in his sleep from the occasional nightmare and yet Priya had never complained, instead she simply asked him if he wanted to talk about it and checked when the next appointment with the therapist was) body on her side of the bed, the small baby bump rising and falling slowly as she slept.

_Dean remembers clearly the moment Priya tells him she's pregnant. She comes into the bedroom, holding the strip out in front of her, a huge grin splitting her face._

_Dean stares at the blue lines, his thoughts an incoherent mess. He wants to kiss Priya, he wants to call up his parents, he wants to call up Sammy, he wants to call up Rex Hall and tell him to suck it, he wants to curl up and die because this baby's gonna be doomed if he's the father._

_After all, how can he be sure he won't become his father?_

_But then Priya comes nearer, takes his hand, and places it over the point her stomach meets her hips._

" _We're gonna be parents," she whispers._

_And at that moment, Dean can see it all. He's going to teach this kid how to ride a bike, how to fix up cars, how to make burgers, how to stand up for themselves. This kid is going to fight with him from time to time and be a stubborn little shit (it's Dean and Priya's kid after all) but the kid's also going to care about him and love him because that's just what kids do._

_And no matter what happens, Dean's gonna love this kid back._

_At that moment, Dean Winchester knows he will never be his father._

But there was nobody on the bed. Dean cocked his head, ready to turn round and check that she wasn't in the bathroom.

That was when the nightmare started.

A cold, wet dripping sound had Dean spinning his head back round. The pale blue bedsheet now had two dark red stains. Dean followed the drops to their source, looking up onto the ceiling.

There she was, her expression contorted into a grotesque parody of her usual smiling face, her stomach slashed open, the wound clearly deep enough to have killed the baby inside. Before Dean could move, before he could even think, an unearthly scream poured out of Priya's mouth. Flames flared out from above her, rippling across the ceiling, consuming everything in its wake.

"Priya!" Dean roared, barely able to hear himself over the deafening crackle of the fire. He scrambled up to try and reach her, but the flames licked at his arms and sent him sprawling back. Trying to move quickly, he crawled to the door, hoping to find a fire extinguisher, a magic bucket of sand, anything really that could be used to put the fire out.

He flung open the door and stumbled onto the landing, the acrid smoke starting to choke him. Blinking through the tears, he opened the door to his parents' room.

Michael and Jane Winchester lay on the bed with their throats slit. Crimson rivers flowed from their necks, across the sheets, and onto the carpet. Their eyes stared off into the distance, their lips parted in simultaneous silent screams.

No. No no no. This wasn't happening. This was some fucked up nightmare that definitely wasn't happening.

Dean willed himself to wake up, to escape this at any cost. He looked around the room, looking for a sign that this was merely a dream, only to catch sight of a dark shadow with two floating spots of amber by the curtains. He took a step towards it, reaching into his belt for the silver knife, when he heard a terrified scream followed by the same haunting screech Priya had uttered in her last moments.

He ran out into the landing once again and flung open Sam's door.

"Sammy!" he yelled, looking up to see Jessica, sweet, innocent, Poirot-loving Jessica, pinned to the ceiling, fire curling up around her nightdress, slowing engulfing her.

"Sam!" he shouted once again as he hauled him off the bed and started dragging him towards the door.

"Dean, it's there, he's still there," Sam cried back, and Dean turned round to see the creature once again, its amber eyes flickering in the light from the flames.

Dean wanted nothing more than to dive into the fire and stab the fucker over and over again until he could get back even an ounce of what he'd lost that night. But if he let go of Sam, his brother would join him in doing the same. And no matter how mad Dean was, he couldn't let Sam die too.

"We're gonna get him, Sammy, I swear we're gonna get him," Dean said over and over again as he huddled his brother into his arms and dragged him down the stairs and out of the house.

Within minutes the fire brigade arrived, the neighbours having called the emergency services. Sam and Dean watched their attempts to put out the raging fire with apathy, answered their questions about gas leaks and overloaded plug sockets with apathy, listened to their explanations of how little had been recovered from the house with apathy. Everything that had been worth a damn had been lost.

Sam's girlfriend, his would-be fiancée, had been lost.

Dean's wife and child had been lost.

Their parents had been lost.

The boys leaned against the hood of the Impala, both consumed by grief and hate and rage.

_You and Priya spent so long discussing baby names._

_You and Mum had been planning a baby shower._

_Hell, you weren't at home to protect her because you were out trying to earn more money for the baby._

_She died because you weren't there when she needed you to be. They all did._

Finally, Sam broke the silence. "You saw it then?"

"Yeah, I did."

Sam merely nodded, went around to the trunk of the car, opened it, and loaded a few of the shotguns. He shut the trunk with a thud.

"We've got work to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note: Once again, I'd love it if you could give me some feedback about the story, along with answers to the following questions:
> 
> 1\. Which ending did you pick and why?
> 
> 2\. How did you find this story?
> 
> 3\. Are there any extra scenes you'd really like to see?


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